Mags' War, Part 3
by thankyoufinnick
Summary: Casting off his celebrity persona, Finnick strives to be taken seriously as a revolutionary. But not everyone's convinced the ex-playboy was putting on an act all those years. Cashmere, waking up alone in the midst of a revolution she never dreamed of, has to keep from being used as a hostage, adjust to a whole new world, and figure out whose side she's on.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm back, and so are regular updates! Sorry for the hiatus, I was traveling most of September. But now the AU canon-divergence can begin. :)

* * *

Finnick wakes up, then regrets it. His chest throbs with pain, the skin on his hands and arms burns and itches at the same time, and when he sits up, he's light-headed. But adrenaline has him on his feet, feeling for a weapon, looking wildly around for a threat.

"He's awake!" a masculine voice calls.

Sluggish and stupid, Finnick is slow to find the face that goes with the voice, and match it to a name. _Haymitch._

He has to struggle even harder for the man who comes at Haymitch's call. _Plutarch._

 _First you take stock of your situation,_ Mags' voice says, _then you react. Don't move until you know what you're going to do._

Finnick forces himself to look around quickly, and grab for elusive words. _Hovercraft. Hunger Games. Katniss. Lightning. Beetee. Cashmere._

Is this what it's like for Mags, being able to understand speech but not produce it?

But no, it's coming back to him quickly. Just a little disoriented, that's all. When Plutarch asks how he's feeling, he can answer "Fine" without needing to think about it, and "Four" to the number of fingers Haymitch is holding up. When Haymitch jokes that he was actually holding up twelve, Finnick snorts reflexively.

Then he remembers that Mags is dead, and he sits back down heavily on the bed.

"You were electrocuted-" Plutarch begins, but Finnick interrupts him.

"Where are we? Where are we going? Who's still alive? Can we talk freely? Where's Johanna?" Finnick pelts him with questions, hunting for problems to solve. That's all that kept him going in the arena, with Mags dead, and Annie-

Annie. _Annie!_ Memory is coming back.

Plutarch's shaking his head. "Not with her here, we can't. Come fore; we'll talk there."

Finnick glances around to follow Plutarch's line of sight to Cashmere, lying on her own bed. "She's with me," he says briskly. Then he takes in the whole scene.

"What the fuck?!" Cashmere's lying bound to the bed with rope. Eyes wide, she watches the scene between Finnick and Plutarch play out.

"She'll make a useful hostage," Plutarch explains, even as Finnick is swinging his legs over to the other side of his bed and crossing the distance to Cashmere. "Finnick!" he snaps, more sternly, as Finnick starts untying her. "She can't be trusted."

The burns on his hands and arms make him fumble, but it's only knots, he can do this. "I told you," Finnick insists, unwinding the rope, "she's with me."

"Her district is at war with ours. This isn't a game."

"Were you watching in the arena?" Finnick asks. "When I stood between her and Katniss's bow? You can have Cashmere as a hostage over my dead body."

Cashmere is free now, but she lies as unmoving as if she were still bound.

"Regardless of whether she's free or a hostage," Plutarch decrees, "I'm not leaving her alone with an unconscious Katniss and Beetee."

"So brief me here," Finnick tells him.

"Not happening. If you want to be surprised when we land, you can be surprised. No briefings where she can overhear."

"Sedate her," Haymitch suggests. "After two days in the arena, she could probably use some rest."

Plutarch shrugs, thinking about it. "Sure."

Finnick's eyes narrow, but they're not getting anywhere, and he desperately needs to know where Annie is, who's still alive, what the plan is. Plutarch knows he has the upper hand over Finnick. And Haymitch is right. Cashmere's been through a lot.

Finnick turns away from Plutarch and back to the woman lying on the bed, waiting for her fate to be decided. "Honey, would you mind taking a sedative? I won't force you, but you can see how complicated everything is, and I need time to convince them we're on the same side. When you wake up, things will be better." He hopes he can keep that promise.

Outnumbered, trapped, Cashmere plays along in hopes of buying time. A strategy Finnick knows well.

"I'll do whatever you tell me," she whispers. Her eyes never leave Finnick, pleading with him to believe her. "I've always been loyal-"

"Sedate her before she incriminates herself," Haymitch urges.

"Oh, please. Like I wouldn't say the same if I thought I were in the hands of the Capitol. I said it all the way up until the forcefield came down. You shoot enough people, even Katniss'll read from the fucking cards."

Finnick stretches out a hand imperiously, demanding a syringe. Haymitch passes one over, and Finnick holds Cashmere's gaze reassuringly while she administers it to her upper arm. "It'll be better when you wake up," he repeats as her eyes close.

Then he has to fight to keep his concentration on what Plutarch and Haymitch are saying, and not on the jolts of grief every time he remembers Mags or the crippling panic when he thinks of Annie being tortured. He's as woozy as if he'd taken a sedative himself, and everything's a little distant.

They're on their way to District Thirteen, so at least that much has gone according to plan. Plutarch won't give too many details on what to expect there, which Finnick can understand if he's worried about surveillance.

Communications with Four are down. That's good and bad. Shutting down outgoing transmissions until they're fully in control was part of Pearleye's plans, but it means that until and unless Annie shows up in the Capitol, nobody has any idea where she is, much less any details about the rebellion in Four.

No sooner does Finnick have the chance to start wrestling his emotions into waiting mode than the next blow comes. Peeta, Johanna, and Enobaria are in the hands of the Capitol. Plutarch is going to try to get his people to extricate them, but so far nothing.

His heart sinks, and he doesn't know who it aches for most, the prisoners of war or him and Katniss, left behind.

And that's it, the briefing concludes, everyone else is dead. Finnick half envies them.

A long silence follows.

Then, with difficulty, Haymitch turns to the problem at hand. Getting Katniss, still the most important piece in the game, to cooperate.

As if to prove his point, she barges in with an energy that Finnick, still sluggish, could envy if he didn't know that she's in more pain than he is. _At least I signed up for this,_ he tries reminding himself after she's carried away, unconscious.

He wouldn't have sedated her without at least the nominal consent Cashmere gave, but everything happened faster than he could process. He's left staring after her, trying to think of one reason Johanna won't hate him as much as Katniss after this.

When they've reformed, Finnick knows he's got to pull himself together. "How safe is it to talk here? I can give you a rundown on what's going on in Four."

"The 'craft may be bugged. Don't tell me anything the Capitol won't already know. You said you were planning to make your move Reaping Day?"

Finnick nods. "If they fire on the civilians in the crowd, we have propaganda; if not, we have numbers. I could hear the gunfire as the train pulled out, and they met me in the Capitol with an armed escort. They know."

He gives a brief overview of the militia, Pearleye, and Mags' careful planning. Plutarch knows some of this after Finnick connected with him last year, but it's all new to Haymitch.

"Oh my god," Haymitch blurts out. "All those years, all eyes on the Careers and their academies, and no one suspected."

"Once we land, I can start giving you the information I collected. I've got blackmail material, floorplans, passwords-" Finnick flounders, suddenly realizing he's got to sort out what will be useful to Plutarch rather than Pearleye. A map of the Capitol, Plutarch's presumably already got. What else?

He's gripping the edge of the table, trying to power through and use the discomfort of his reddened and blistered palms to keep him alert, when Plutarch interrupts him mid-sentence.

"Finnick, please get some rest. Stop and take stock for one minute, and you'll see how much you need it. And I need you sharp when we land."

Finnick wavers. Plutarch's right, but he doesn't know how badly Finnick needs work to do. "We haven't talked about Cashmere," he says at last.

Plutarch sighs. "Her district isn't in rebellion. We can't trust her."

"The Capitol put her in the arena with her brother and made her watch him die," Finnick points out. "There's no way she's with them."

"I can't risk our entire war by trusting someone who volunteered for the Hunger Games."

 _I rigged the draw!_ But explaining that would take more than he's capable of right now. "She defected publicly. The whole country was watching. You use her as a hostage, we'll never get another defector as long as we live."

"Boy has a point," Haymitch interjects.

"Listen," Finnick says, taking advantage of that opening, "I'll vouch for her good behavior myself. I'll give her the same terms I gave her in the arena. She stays with me at all times."

"The same terms," Plutarch decides, reluctantly. "If I see her and you're not around, I'll assume she's making a break for it."

"Deal." It's a start.

Back in the compartment where he woke up, Finnick ignores his empty bed and instead lies down with a still sleeping Cashmere. The bed is so narrow that he has to pull her into his arms to make room for both of them. At least this time, if the others try anything on her, it'll wake him up. And he'll have someone to hold onto while Mags' voice tells him everything is depending on him and Annie's voice screams his name.

Katniss doesn't feel like talking, and Finnick can't blame her. He doesn't have much comfort to offer.

He has no one to offer him comfort either, but Cashmere's hair under his face grows very damp before he finally falls asleep.

When he wakes up, he remembers that Mags is dead. It doesn't take so long this time. Believing it is another matter, but, well...

Exhaustion is hitting him like a tidal wave. Not even the driving curiosity about where they are, when they're going to land or whether they already have, and how long he's been out, is strong enough to make him sit up in bed.

After lying motionless for some time, trying to summon up the will to move, Finnick puts his hand on Cashmere's shoulder and begins stroking with his fingertips. He doesn't want to wake her, but she lifts her head as soon as she feels the first twitch.

She may be as quick to wake as he is, but Finnick has a suspicion she's been awake the whole time, afraid to budge.

"Hey, Cashmere," he whispers, when she doesn't say anything. "It's all right, you're safe."

No response, but she's listening, hanging on to every word.

"You're out of the arena, and you're never going back. I couldn't tell you, but I was trying to get as many of us out alive as I could. That's why I wanted you with us."

"I didn't know," she whispers in horror.

Finnick remembers that Gloss is dead.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save your brother. I only ended up getting you, me, Katniss, and Beetee out alive and free. Johanna, Peeta, and Enobaria are prisoners of the Capitol. Everyone else is dead."

"I thought you were going to kill me." Cashmere is dazed. "I only thought you'd be quicker about it than Brutus."

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. There's no way we could have saved anyone if word had gotten out."

"But even if I knew," and here she grows more agitated, "I couldn't have left my brother alone in the pack!"

"I know. You're incredibly loyal and brave. I'm sorry. I will say that until I die. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

He strokes her hair and murmurs apologies until she relaxes a bit.

"So that's why Brutus and Enobaria kept falling back and regrouping." Cashmere nods to herself.

Finnick's glad to see her analyzing the situation again, even if he has to correct her. "Uh, well, actually...they weren't in on the plan either." Cashmere looks confused, so Finnick continues, a little wrong-footed, "Only about half the tributes were. And District Two is still supporting the Capitol. We tried letting you and Gloss know, but we didn't even bring it up with Two."

Cashmere's still frowning like she doesn't quite believe it. "I didn't understand why they let you go in the first place, and then why they backed off twice, at the Cornucopia and the tree."

"Well, they were both playing to win." Finnick shrugs. "I know Brutus talked a lot of smack, but so did I. It was practically obligatory. And I know District Two has a reputation for being reckless and never backing down from a fight, but the victors are, by definition, the ones who didn't do the stupid shit that got them killed."

He can see Cashmere accepting what she doesn't understand. "Okay."

"I'm sorry we couldn't tell you. I really am. But you're safe here now."

Encouraged, Cashmere shifts enough to look at him. She doesn't ask, but there's a question in her eyes.

"If you ask Plutarch," he answers, "you're on parole as long as you're with me. If you ask me, you're under my protection. Stay with me, and I'll keep you safe."

She nods. "I'll do whatever you tell me to. I'll stay with you."

Cashmere's true to her word. She stays with him when the doctor onboard-disguised as a Peacekeeper-comes to inspect their injuries before they disembark, and she's at his elbow when Plutarch ushers them out into District Thirteen. It's night when they set foot on land.

"Katniss, come on!" Plutarch calls while Haymitch opens the hatch.

Katniss turns her head to the side of her bed and refuses to move.

"I thought she was tougher than this," Plutarch mutters, but he cuts himself off mid-word when Finnick casually shoves him up against the side of the craft with one arm.

"You haven't lost anyone in the last forty-eight hours," Finnick snarls.

Shocked more by Finnick's willingness to lay a hand on him than by the actual assault, Plutarch jerks free. "You have. And never touch me again."

"Lay off Katniss. I had ten years to prepare for this. She found out about Peeta in the same minute she found out about the revolution. Let's go." Finnick jerks his head toward the outside.

"If this were an army, you'd be court-martialed for that."

"Cut them both some slack for a few days," Haymitch suggests mildly. "They've just come from the arena. They'll be jumping on everything in sight until it wears off."

"Keep a sedative on hand," Plutarch says to him with a meaningful glance at Finnick. "Now let's go already."

Even though he's the one who's given his word to protect Cashmere, Finnick finds himself glancing over to her for reassurance that she's here, as they step out of the 'craft into this unknown land. With Johanna gone, she's the only one he trusts to have his back.

The first thing Finnick notices is that after the jungle and the mild climate of the southern coast, October is brisk in District Thirteen. He shivers in his light outfit.

A guide whom Plutarch seems to know leads them, but they have to be silent as they walk. Finnick takes advantage of this to try to take in as much as possible of his surroundings. He looks up quickly at the stars to get his bearings. All he can tell is that they're moving east.

Finnick loses sight of the stars when they enter a wooded area. The trees are unfamiliar, and he blames the cold wind when he has to blink back tears after he catches himself wanting to ask Johanna. She'll be all right. _She knows too much_ , a crueler voice taunts.

 _But she's smarter than they are._

Mags' voice reminds him that the intelligent ones break as easily as anyone else.

His bleak thoughts are interrupted by Plutarch speaking in a soft voice that Finnick has to strain to hear. "Talk to Katniss privately if you need to," Plutarch orders Haymitch, "but I'll need her here by dawn. We're destroying the hovercraft."

"You don't think we should keep a 'craft around that we can use?" Finnick wonders, pitching his voice similarly low.

Taken by surprise, Plutarch turns to look at Finnick over his shoulder. He shakes his head. "Too likely to get shot down. We had one free flight by seizing the element of surprise. Now they're looking for that particular 'craft. Besides, it might be bugged."

Makes sense, but Finnick is still reluctant to surrender a potential weapon. Then Mags nudges him in his head.

 _Don't get tied down. Stay on the move, stay alive. Nothing is irreplaceable except your life._

As much as it hurts to hear her so clearly, he's scared that he may someday forget what her voice sounds like. _Mags!_

Throughout their journey, Finnick keeps giving himself assignments to observe his surroundings. Anything to keep himself focused and functional.

He's not surprised to see nothing but wilderness. District Thirteen is a scattered set of underground shelters dating back to the days when they were safeguards against accidents in one of the nuclear power plants. Anything that was aboveground has fallen to ruin.

Their new home, when they reach it, is architecturally elaborate, with meeting rooms, a dining area, an infirmary, and so on. Even private sleeping quarters. "It's two to a room," their guide explains. "We haven't had time to furnish all of them. Only got word you were coming at the last minute."

"I'll keep an eye on the Mockingjay," Haymitch volunteers.

Plutarch nods his thanks to both and proceeds to outline orders. "We've got one wounded we'll need help transporting. Katniss can walk. The three Peacekeepers on board are in disguise. They're with me."

After introductions are completed, Plutarch asks someone to show Finnick to a room. "You're still in shock," he says briskly. When Finnick opens his mouth to protest, Plutarch overrides him. "I'd think less of you if you weren't. Get some sleep and report for duty in twenty-four hours."

Finnick tries to push out words into a convincing argument, but he can't even summon up his trademark smile. Plutarch has already turned to someone else and is making arrangements for Beetee's care. It's easier just to comply. He can start contributing tomorrow.

The room they're led to has two mattresses on the floor. Finnick thinks about letting Cashmere choose, but she's hovering behind him, with her back pressed against the door jamb, not making the first move. Finnick has to put himself in her shoes and see himself as an enemy before he can understand why: tactically, whoever lies down first is at a disadvantage.

So he falls onto the mattress further from the door, thinking she'll prefer not having him between her and the only escape route. Ideally, he'd ask, but words are stuck thick in his throat right now. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll be himself again.

Finnick's asleep before he even sees how Cashmere chooses to position herself.

* * *

A/N: Not the most exciting chapter, but now that the pieces are in place in Thirteen, interesting things can start to happen. :)


	2. Chapter 2

_You're the only one who moved in with me because you wanted more training._

 _You're the only fourteen-year-old who survived the Hunger Games._

 _No one's ever earned that much sponsorship money._

 _I need you to create a diversion. You're the only one I can count on._

 _You're the only one who can bring me classified information from the Capitol._

 _You're the only one I would trust with this._

Mags adores Finnick. She never holds back when it comes to praise, and she's always throwing her arms around him and squeezing when he comes to her glowing with his latest accomplishment.

Even when she can't talk any longer, her hands and her smile say what her words have always said. _I love you, I'm proud of you, you're the only one who has my heart._

When she kisses him one last time, he can hear everything she's unable to say. _I love you. Thank you. Goodbye._ And, _You're the only one who can save Peeta._

Weighed down by responsibility, Finnick runs. With each pound of his foot against the ground, Mags' voice echoes in his head.

 _You're the only one._ Thump.

 _You're the only one._ Thump.

His lungs are burning, his body's falling apart, and his heart's shattered into a million pieces, but he can't afford to stop. Every time he wants to lie down, the urgency of Mags' kiss pushes him on. _You're the only one._

When finally he can give no more, his body folds. He collapses with Peeta on top of him and goes fighting into the darkness.

 _I'm sorry, Mags. I'm sorry. I'll see you soon._

Finnick awakens, not quick and startled, but groggy. His limbs are heavy, and for a while he's not sure if he can move them or if they're still paralyzed. No. He's not lying in the arena under Peeta's limp body. He's in District Thirteen. He's not spasming, not from nerve gas and not from electrocution. Mags isn't dead.

No, wait.

Finnick forces his eyes to open a sliver and his brain to concentrate on his surroundings. The bright light is shocking, and he shields his eyes with his hand. He must have fallen asleep with it on, and Cashmere didn't turn it off.

When his eyes have adjusted, he finds that he's lying on his side, with his back pressed to the wall and his boots still on. She's pushed the two mattresses together and is lying as close beside him as she can without touching.

 _Is she afraid of me or not?_

Trying to sort out what to do about her situation delays the inevitable onset of the memories. Mags. Annie. Johanna. Peeta. If he got Cashmere out of the arena alive, that was the only thing he accomplished in there. Katniss would have gotten herself out on her own, and if anyone helped, it was Johanna.

Mags is dead, and he couldn't even save Peeta in the end. And Katniss hates him.

He tries to think of an opening line that will get Katniss's attention, but if telling her how hard he tried to save Peeta didn't work, he's not sure what will. He can only hope that it was just the shock, and that she'll be willing to give him a chance to explain when they're both feeling a bit better. Otherwise, that's one more casualty of his persona.

Worse is Annie. No doubt being tortured while he lies here, safe in bed. It's his fault for giving the game away, spelling out for Snow that he'll do stupid shit if Annie's life is at stake.

 _Annie, Mags, Peeta, Katniss, Johanna. Annie, Mags, Peeta, Katniss, Johanna._

The only thing that keeps Finnick from tormenting himself endlessly with this mantra is Cashmere. Her back is to him, but he can see faint trembles start to run through her shoulders. "I'm sorry," he whispers, before it occurs to him that she might want privacy for her grief.

Cashmere turns instantly to face him. Her eyes are bone dry, though her face is ravaged with pain. Impulsively, Finnick lifts the arm he's not lying on top of, inviting her in.

Without hesitation, Cashmere shifts closer, letting him hold her, and then, when she realizes he's crying, puts her own arms around him.

"I'm sorry," he says into the tangled mess that's her normally luxurious hair. He finds himself trying to straighten it exactly as though it were Annie's. "It's not your fault. You didn't know. Almost no one did. I wish I could have told you."

"You tried," she reminds him.

Not good enough, never good enough. "Katniss didn't know either. She didn't want to be there any more than you or your brother did."

"She's the reason we were sent back to the arena," Cashmere seethes.

Johanna's not the only one carrying that resentment.

Even Finnick has to fight to be fair and remember why Katniss was punished. For bravery, loyalty, and competence. Not for her faults. "She was just trying to save her sister," he argues. "And her district partner. Tell me you would never have tried to save Gloss."

"She should have followed the rules."

"You followed the rules," Finnick points out, "and look what happened to you. That's why—well, I don't know how much you overheard or pieced together. But I'm going to tell you everything."

Still wrapped in her arms, Finnick starts summarizing the revolution for Cashmere. The rising anger in the districts, Mags' plan, his spy activities, the importance of saving Katniss, the plan to extract as many tributes as possible from the arena.

Too few, too few.

Plutarch, his contacts in the Capitol and throughout the districts, the hidden descendants of the District Thirteen survivors. The plan to unite the districts behind Katniss. The fact that District One is not in rebellion. Finnick hardly expects Cashmere to be committed to the rebel cause after half a day of being held prisoner, but he's hoping he can win her over slowly.

"We follow the rules, Cashmere. They don't. First they tell you to sleep with your sponsors, and then they start giving you lists of more people to sleep with, and you have to make it look like your idea, and if you don't, they kill your family. After the first year I didn't even get lists, I just got names dropped in casual conversation from Snow and his henchmen, and I knew what I had to do.

"I was lucky; I had a revolution I was supporting, so everything I did was as much for myself—for Mags—as for Snow. But even so, you do everything they say, ask how high when they say to jump, and you still end up back in the arena watching the person you love most die. That's what you get when you follow the rules."

"Mags?" Cashmere asks.

"Yeah." Finnick's voice cracks, but somehow with a literal shoulder to cry on, and her head on his shoulder, it's possible to talk. "She adopted me...took me in off the streets when I was nine." Cashmere's arms tighten around him as the tears, restrained under the clinical accounting of the revolution, begin to flow again. "Trained me up for the Games, helped me navigate life as a victor afterward. Made sure I always had something to fight for, that I wasn't just a victim.

"Then Annie." Cashmere was there, she saw the jabberjays. Finnick, in turn, didn't miss the fact that they had no one to use on her. "We were..." His voice wavers. "...Engaged. And they're probably torturing her now. If they have her."

"Maybe they don't," Cashmere says softly. "Maybe they don't."

Finnick's shaking, and he clutches at Cashmere like a lifeline, trying to steady himself. "Well, they have Johanna. And we weren't engaged, but she's a good friend, she deserves better. Gloss deserved better."

She doesn't cry with him, but she holds tight, and Finnick hopes she's finding some comfort too in not being alone. But Annie's trained him well, and so Finnick says, when he's cried himself dry, "Listen. I'm trying to keep you safe, and for now that means your best bet is to stay with me until the others trust you. But if you need privacy at any point, you want to grieve for your brother, have a private little meltdown, anything, just let me know. I'll make it happen."

Cashmere shakes her head and presses closer to him, though he didn't think that was possible. "I don't want to be alone here."

"You don't have to be," Finnick promises. "But you can if you need to. I'll make sure no one hurts you. And we're going to work on getting you more freedom."

But first, breakfast. Plutarch, who's taken command here, has decided the dining area is called a mess hall, and Finnick gets corrected when asking for directions. "Who cares what it's called-where's the place that has food?"

He tries to sit down across from Katniss, who's sitting over an empty plate and staring into space without moving, but she gets up and leaves the table as soon as she sees him.

Finnick sighs. It's going to be hard enough navigating between Katniss and Cashmere without Katniss pushing him away at every opportunity.

Haymitch is pouring himself another drink. "Moonshine," he says, and lifts his glass in Finnick's general direction. "Stronger than whiskey, but needs to be about ten times stronger for this." He tosses it back.

Finnick eats without noticing what he's eating. "Is Beetee okay?" he asks between bites, about halfway through.

Someone from Thirteen makes a noncommittal grunt. "They're saying he'll live. Probably won't walk, though."

Fuck. So much for getting anyone out of the arena in one piece.

Haymitch leaves. As soon as he does, the guy who'd spoken before leans over toward Finnick. "You haven't heard?" he asks softly.

Finnick shakes his head. "I've been asleep."

The other man's mouth tightens. "They bombed District Twelve. Yesterday."

Finnick's eyes widen, and he sets down his spoon. "How bad?" he asks hoarsely.

"They're saying all of it."

All of it? It's more than Finnick can grasp. That's the stuff of legend, stuff even Mags was too young to remember. District Four has been planning for bombings—is probably being bombed as he sits here eating a midday breakfast—but no one ever considered all of District Four being taken out at once.

He finishes breakfast in a daze, and then he's at something of a loss. Eventually, he decides that if Katniss and Haymitch need to be alone-or alone together-in the aftermath, he should respect that. Instead, he goes looking for Plutarch, to discuss how this will affect broad Thirteen and Four strategy.

When he attempts to find Plutarch, though, he gets a quick lesson in how much has changed. Plutarch has reverted to active duty military status, and is now requiring that everyone address him as General Heavensbee. Finnick raises his eyebrows, but that's just the beginning.

Plutarch-General Heavensbee-is no longer available on demand. You have to make an appointment with his staff, and he has a full schedule. Finnick is welcome to request a slot, but he shouldn't expect anything soon, and in the meantime he's instructed to report to the underground range for training with firearms.

That leaves Finnick torn. Outraged at being excluded from decision making, but panting to get his hands on a real weapon. He's always had a deep emotional attachment to his trident, but he's never had any illusions that when the war started, he wouldn't trade it in a heartbeat for a firearm. So he firmly sets aside his twinge at betraying the weapon he spent so many years with, and he heads for the range the moment he gets his name on Plutarch's waiting list.

That just makes it all the more frustrating when for the first day, he's not allowed to get his hands on a weapon. Theory comes first: safety, maintenance, assembly and disassembly...Finnick bites his tongue and remembers footwork drills at the academy. Soon enough, he tells himself, and tries not to pick at the wounds on his hands to distract himself from the very slow lecture.

After the lecture, they're herded to an auditorium, where Plutarch's accepting oaths of allegiance to the new military government. Finnick's done propaganda long enough to know the value of putting everyone on the spot in a crowd: no time for second thoughts, and peer pressure to crush any reservations.

That puts him in a tight spot. Making promises with the intent of breaking his word is his specialty, but he's trying to start over now that he's free. But who's going to believe him, if he refuses to take the oath?

When his turn comes, Finnick takes a deep breath. He wishes he'd had a chance to prepare this, but he'll ad lib as best he can. "Many years ago, before I'd ever heard of District Thirteen, I was asked to take an oath to another government."

His departure from the set wording immediately sets off murmurs in the auditorium and a scowl on Plutarch's face.

"That oath is no longer relevant," Plutarch interrupts.

Finnick continues calmly, "It became relevant on Reaping Day, when, if all went well, District Four seceded from Panem, ceased to be a district, and put in place an alternative government. I am happy to swear to support the new regime in Thirteen, not to betray it to the enemy, and to fight in its defense, but allegiance and total obedience are beyond what I can commit to."

The murmurs turn into a commotion. Plutarch has to call twice for silence. "I've heard nothing about this supposed secession."

"Have you heard anything from Four?" Finnick counters. "All outgoing communications were supposed to be disabled."

He suppresses the urge to say something nasty about how if Plutarch wants to know what's going on in Four, he has a source of information standing right in front of him that he's so far shown no interest in. Finnick reminds himself that it's bad persuasive technique even if it's justified. Maybe especially if it's justified. But it's not looking like he's going to have a much easier time working with Plutarch than with Pearleye.

"How am I supposed to trust you, if you won't take the oath?"

Finnick glances at Cashmere and raises his eyebrow at Plutarch, but Plutarch just gives her a dismissive look. "I wouldn't believe her if she did swear. Any oath she took would just be to keep herself alive long enough to escape. You I would have believed, but now you're refusing."

"I've already sworn an oath. Would you like me to swear conflicting oaths and have to break one? I'm being honest with you, but I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. I can leave if you think there's too much conflict of interest. But if you want an alliance with Four, you'll have all the support I can give you."

Plutarch looks tempted by the first offer, but Finnick's heartened when he tightens his lips.

"You risked your life to protect the Mockingjay. You'll be on probation until I have confirmation—or otherwise—of your claims about Four."

Finnick'll take it.

After the ceremony, Finnick tries to bring himself to go back to the shooting range, but he's swaying on his feet. Balancing the desire to power through with the wisdom of pacing himself, Finnick decides on heading back to his room.

This time, knowing Cashmere doesn't want to be alone, he arranges the room with her so they can lie so close that even in their sleep, they'll feel each other's breathing.

He dreams of Annie, and of Katniss, but when he wakes, too heavy to move, he lies on his side and watches Cashmere sleep instead of thinking about Annie and where she might be and what she might be going through. It helps. A little, but he'll take it. He's always thought that good dreams should count as nightmares, when you wake up and they're not real.

Perhaps Cashmere agrees, because she doesn't talk about her dreams, but she wakes with a sound of distress. He can't tell her Gloss is alive, so he only reaches out. She buries her face in his shoulder, and he buries his face in her hair.

Within a minute, she's crying hard but trying to keep it quiet, and all Finnick can do is cradle and murmur. _It's all right, it's your turn, that's right, go ahead and grieve, you're safe here._ Then it's his turn again. Until he's all cried out, and all he can do is lie there, thinking about how he should be getting up and solving problems, making himself useful. He wishes weren't still so out of it, too exhausted to do more than follow orders and collapse when the orders stop coming. He worries that Cashmere went the entire day without opening her mouth, but he can't say he's doing much better.

The only comfort he has is that Cashmere trusts him with her tears now.

Which only makes him feel, oddly, like he's cheating on her when he holds her, reliving his good dreams. The ones where Katniss trusts him with anything. The ones where she talks to him about Peeta and he talks about Annie. The ones where he tells her about the last ten years, and she forgives him, and she isn't interested in him. The ones where she's overwhelmed with the demands of being the Mockingjay, and he's lost without Mags, but they have each other. The ones where they collaborate in rallying the districts, and she takes him seriously.

Only hunger finally drives Finnick out of bed after skipping dinner to sleep, and even then it's more feeling Cashmere's stomach rumble that gets him up.

He manages breakfast, then resists the urge to sleep another hundred years and goes in search of Katniss and Haymitch. He finds Haymitch.

"Katniss is with her sister."

Finnick's head flies up. "Her sister?"

"Yeah...you didn't hear?"

Few things are more frustrating than being a professional spy and being constantly behind the times. "I was in weapons training most of yesterday. I just woke up."

"We brought in some survivors this morning. Seems there was an evacuation after all. Don't get too excited," Haymitch warns. "We evacuated Twelve like we evacuated the arena. A few lucky ones made it out."

"Sure they're the lucky ones?" Finnick asks cynically.

Haymitch fixes a bleary eye on Finnick. "Not when you put it that way."

"I have no idea what to say. Anything I can do?"

"I'd kill for some hair of the dog and a blowjob."

Finnick snorts. "Done and done."

When Finnick returns, Haymitch takes a swig out of the proffered bottle and then spits it out. "Did you water this?"

Finnick doesn't deny it. "If you go blind, you won't be able to admire my pretty face. Were you serious about the blowjob?"

Grumbling, Haymitch accepts that this dog's hair is watery and takes a couple mouthfuls. Then he grunts. "Nah. I'm not a sponsor." His eyes flicker at Cashmere, standing silent behind Finnick, but Finnick gives a little shake of his head, and Haymitch takes the hint.

"I know Katniss is going through a rough time, but let me know if she wants to hear an apology, or an explanation...or if she just wants to yell at me...anything that isn't walking out of the room when I come in?"

"I'll letcha know. Thanks."

Finnick's heart is breaking for her. If she was guilt-ravaged enough over Peeta to insist that he be saved- _Annie!_ -how much worse must it be now?

But all he can do is trust her family to help her more than he can. He passes the time before weapons training resumes by mingling a bit with the Thirteen residents, listening more than talking, and learning what he can. Then it's off to the range, hoping he can stay awake long enough.

Cashmere's not allowed to train, but she stands silently behind him watching, and he makes a point of angling so she can see what he's doing. Then, when his hands tell him he needs to stop now, he strips off gun and sling, hands it to her, and goes for a drink of water. When he comes back, she's still holding it uncomfortably.

"Go on," Finnick says with a nod toward the gun. "I won't let anyone punish you," he adds when she still hesitates.

Cashmere looks around, but everyone else is focused on their own practice. "But the rules-"

"Look, Johanna's not here, and someone needs to have my back. And I don't think you want to be defenseless. I can't promise you'll be issued a gun right away, but you'll know how to use one when you are."

"You promise I won't get in trouble?" Cashmere tries one last time. She looks surprisingly submissive for a trained killer holding an assault rifle. Finnick's seen Johanna look more deadly armed with nothing but a spoon.

"Promise. I'm answerable for your behavior. And all you're doing is standing here trying out your aim with my supervision."

With obvious reluctance, Cashmere begins her own training. Finnick stands just behind her and keeps a close eye on her every movement. Her he trusts, but he's not letting anyone claim later that he let her run amok with a gun.

She picks it up quickly, of course. She is a Career. Finnick feels not just vindicated but proud when she catches up to him without the formal one-on-one instruction he got earlier. All she's done is watch, but from that she figured out everything she needed to know.

 _Hell, yes, I'm arming her._

On their way out, when Finnick is handing over his gun to the official in charge, who's signing off on the transfer, Finnick sees someone slouching against a wall and studying him. He's so used to it that he reacts by instinct. Once he's free to go, after emptying his pockets and undergoing a patdown to prove that he didn't squirrel away any contraband, he turns to the side and switches on his approachable smile, favoring the young man standing there with it. Finnick tells himself he needs to meet people here, stop hiding in his shell of shock and make some proper contacts.

The gesture decides the other man. Breaking away from the wall, he comes striding over to Finnick. Tall, and deceptively lean, not unlike Rudder thirty years ago. _Less hatchet-faced._ Finnick feels a twinge of homesickness as the words pop into his mind.

"Gale Hawthorne."

Finnick sucks in a sharp breath. "I've been hearing you were responsible for evacuating your district."

Gale spits. "Evacuating. That makes it sound like ninety percent of them didn't die."

"If you got more than three out, you did better than I did."

That gives Gale pause.

Finnick says understandingly, "It's never enough."

Gale's lips tighten, and then his eyes blaze with hostility, curiosity, and most of all a raw pain that's hard to witness. "Haymitch said you were a rebel all along?" Gale says with a hint of challenge in his tone. "Undercover in the Capitol?"

"Ten years," Finnick confirms emphatically, fudging the date a little. He always tells people what they need to hear. Cashmere that he was given lists by President Snow and was operating under duress to protect his family. This boy that he was fighting against the Capitol.

"I thought you were one of them." Gale's having a hard time adjusting his opinion of the country's most famous party boy.

Finnick smiles thinly. "So did they. Now they're bombing my district and trying to capture my fiancée so they can torture her. I hate them as much as you do."

"You do know how to fight," he admits. Gale's opinion of Finnick is wavering on his face, and Finnick is seeing traces of hero worship starting to override the contempt.

Finnick nods. "So far, firearms have been faster to learn than tridents."

"I bet." Gale looks down at the range. "I'd better get back. I was just taking a lunch break."

"Gotta kill the bastards," Finnick agrees, and he's rewarded with a flash of approval in Gale's expression.

Urgently feeling the need to get the sweat-soaked bandages off his half-healed skin, Finnick starts heading back to his room, then kicks himself when he's surprised to see Cashmere following. She's almost as tall as he is and well-muscled, she shouldn't be able to fade into the background so thoroughly you forget she's there. He's faintly annoyed with her for being so retiring and rule-conscious, but years of training force him to admit it's himself he's annoyed with. Neither Mags nor Rudder would approve of him losing track of who's standing behind him, no matter how much he trusts her.

Back in their room, Finnick tries a little bonding exercise with Cashmere, them changing each other's bandages and applying ointment, but while she goes along with his unspoken suggestion, she has to stop and wipe her eyes in the middle.

 _You okay?_ sounds stupid at a time like this, so Finnick instead goes for, "If you need anything, tell me. I'm doing my best, but I can't read minds."

Cashmere shakes her head and swallows back the tears. "It's okay," she says, putting the cap back on the cream. "It's just...Gloss...when he was shot...I had to help tend the wound. During the bloodbath," she adds to his blankness.

"I didn't know." Finnick feels like shit now. "You don't have to do this, Cashmere. I just thought we were taking care of each other-"

"No, I don't mind." Her busy hands don't stop. "You saved my life. From the Career pack, your pack, the Capitol, and General Heavensbee."

Finnick's gentle when he winds the bandages around her burns. The doctors say they're superficial, but he says superficial still hurts. "I wish I could have done more." _It's never enough,_ he hears himself tell Gale. "But you don't owe me anything. If this brings back memories and you don't want to, we can tend our own wounds, no problem. And if it's too soon to be holding a gun, you can take time until you heal. It's just me trying to keep busy and stay on my feet. You don't have to."

"No, we were trained to function through pain. Gloss spent a day and a half in the arena with an arrow wound in his leg. This is nothing."

Finnick knows survivor's guilt when he hears it, but he also hears something else. There was only one person at the bloodbath with a bow and arrow. So Katniss got Gloss twice. Finnick suddenly wishes he had a copy of the tape. No one wants to talk about the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games right after they happened. Least of all Finnick, but information gathering comes before his feelings.

Once they're done, Cashmere waits for further orders, and Finnick is wishing he had Mags here to give him some. Being at war without her is like being stranded at sea without a sail.

Before he can muster up the will to go back out for food and more work, Finnick holds Cashmere close for mutual comfort. She's just tall enough to rest her chin on his shoulder standing.

"You're safe now," he whispers. "I promise."

"I know." Cashmere nods her agreement, but it's like a marionette saying all the right things with no conviction. The gratitude in her body language when he reaches out is the only part that feels authentic.

It only makes Finnick more determined to convince her.


	3. Chapter 3

Finnick watches with increasing unease as the militarization of Thirteen under General Heavensbee continues. Plutarch doesn't have what it takes to make a formal army yet, but he's getting there. He's already forming a command structure from the inhabitants of Thirteen and his connections from throughout Panem who continue to arrive.

Finnick still hasn't gotten a private audience with Plutarch, and he's being excluded from the command meetings, which he knows about only because he, like everyone else, is keeping an eye on Katniss, and she _is_ summoned to many of these.

Increasingly desperate measures don't get him anywhere. Finding out in advance where one is going to be held and showing up doesn't work. "Cashmere can wait outside if that's the problem."

All he gets is a generic platitude about how everyone's contributions are important and a reassurance that he will certainly be included in all meetings relevant to his role.

Mentally gritting his teeth under his camera-perfect smile, Finnick turns to Katniss as she passes him. He holds out a hand in appeal.

"Katniss-"

But she only slips into the conference room without acknowledging him. The soundproofed door is slammed shut behind her by the guard.

Cashmere looks at him nervously, but Finnick shakes his head and starts to head back. "It's not you. I don't know why they don't want me, but they don't."

With the direct approach failing, all Finnick can do is try a more indirect one. Fortunately, he has years of experience in it. He starts by reasoning that other victors are probably his best bet at getting into the inner circle. Katniss is avoiding him-and that may or may not be why he's getting left out of the inner circle-and Beetee is still hospitalized, so that leaves Haymitch.

"Would you mind giving me a rundown of what happened in the arena when I wasn't around?"

Haymitch gives him a knowing look. "Not exactly going to ask the people who were there?"

"Not exactly," Finnick agrees. "Cashmere, if you want to sit far enough away that you don't have to hear this, go right ahead."

She doesn't surprise him when she takes him up on the offer. Nor does most of what he hears surprise him. As he'd guessed, Katniss shot Gloss twice.

Well, he can't blame Cashmere for hating Katniss, but he's not sure why Katniss is still avoiding him.

"I'm sorry I had to hit on her in order to _try_ to get some information through to her about the plan," Finnick says in frustration, "but last I checked, she was making out with someone she had no interest in for the same reason: it's how you save lives under that much surveillance."

"She's never been what you'd call friendly. Don't take it personally," Haymitch advises. "And I don't think she's in the mood for making new friends, after the whole district was wiped out."

"I haven't forgotten," Finnick says in a low voice. Was there a little acid in that reminder, or is that just his guilt at still having a home speaking? "I'm grateful you're willing to relive any of this with me, at a time like this."

And he needs to make the most of that willingness. So Finnick does what he does best. He makes small talk.

In the course of that small talk, he's careful to recount his spy adventures in the Capitol, and make them sound as impressive as possible. If the information makes its way up the chain of command, so much the better. At the very least, he needs Haymitch to take him seriously.

Story-telling seems to be doing the trick. Before he's even gotten halfway through, Haymitch is staring at him in disbelief.

"I had to keep Snow from paying any attention to me. So I made sure no one wanted to look at me. Drunk, vomiting, passing out on screen, you name it. And so I was able to get some work done behind the scenes. Hats off to you if you pulled that off with every eye in the country on you." He raises his glass to Finnick. "Mags did say you were sharp."

Finnick looks at him knowingly. "Let me guess. You didn't believe her."

Haymitch chuckles. "We'll just say it was a hard sell, pretty boy."

"Is Katniss buying?"

Haymitch looks uncomfortable. "The Hawthorne kid is. That might work in your favor. Eventually."

Foolish of Finnick to hope otherwise in the face of all the evidence. "But she's still speaking to you?" If she would just sit down and talk to him, he'd try to explain.

"Me, and the three or so other people she knows who are still alive."

Finnick flinches. "Do we have any news about Peeta? Are we getting any broadcasts from the Capitol at all?"

Haymitch looks at him sideways. "Yes to the second question."

Yes, there are broadcasts; no, Finnick hasn't seen or heard of any. Great, Plutarch's censoring. Suddenly, Finnick has a dark fear about why he's being excluded.

His thoughts must be obvious, because Haymitch says quickly, "No news on Annie either."

"But you would say that even if there were," Finnick points out, and Haymitch makes a wry face to admit it.

"But there's not," he repeats.

Against the urge to run, fight, kill, throw himself at Annie and cling until the world ends, Finnick keeps a cool face that he hopes speaks of maturity and self-control. "I won't do anything stupid. I got that out of my system in the arena."

"I'll tell you if I hear anything."

"Thanks." Finnick doesn't believe him, but sometimes even information that a source of information exists is headway. Now he knows to keep an eye and ear out for anyone who has access to broadcasts. "So Katniss avoiding me is nothing personal?"

Haymitch looks uncomfortable. "Well...it's hard to say when she goes on a rant whether it's why she's upset, or just because she's upset."

 _Be fair. Be fair._ Finnick pushes down a host of contradictory emotions and just tries to remind himself that she has plenty of reason to be upset. At him personally and at the conspiracy. "She's ranted about me?"

Haymitch is toying with the buttons on his shirt rather than look at Finnick directly. "You wanna hear this?"

"Yes, I want to hear it!" Finnick says, impatient. "You think I cry over what people think of me, after years of playing a convincing airhead on television?"

"Guess not, at that. Well, her latest rant wasn't too impressed with you acting like the Capitol affairs were all part of a masquerade for the rebellion and Annie's the real thing, and then carrying on with her." Haymitch gestures with his chin toward Cashmere, sitting just out of earshot. Finnick hopes. "Now, I'm impressed," Haymitch hastens to add with a sly wink. "Skin like that and legs that go on forever. What Annie doesn't know can't hurt her, right?"

Finnick grinds his teeth but keeps his growl to himself. _You said you didn't care what they thought, didn't you?_ "Make all the comments you want about me, but leave Cashmere out of it. She's done nothing but what she was told to do, to protect herself, her tributes, her family...Same here."

Haymitch stares at him. "But Snow didn't..."

"Threaten anyone but Katniss? Sure he did." Finnick knows he should be more patient, after years of convincing everyone he was a single-minded sex fiend, but the implication that he's deceiving Annie has him brittle. "How do you think it works when you're an attractive Career with sponsors? You fuck or you die. Or, not you, but anyone you care about. Mags, Annie, Gloss...If Katniss is willing to get married to save her family, she doesn't get to be high and mighty because some of us got a different deal. That pregnancy would have had to be real eventually. I hope you told her that."

"You said you were spying, though...?" Haymitch struggles to fit the pieces together.

"Yeah, and? Mags wanted information, Snow wanted obedience. Not everyone was lucky enough to have both." He nods toward Cashmere.

"Shit, kid. You want a drink?"

This time Finnick's laughter is genuine. "This has been going on for ten years, and you think I need a drink now?"

"Never too late to start," Haymitch points out. Then his eyes go wide with horror. "All those comments we made-"

"It's fine," Finnick interrupts. He really doesn't want this turning into an emotional scene. "You're not the only one. Hell, Annie teased me pretty hard about the Capitol before I told her."

"So Annie knows?"

"Of course she knows! What kind of monster do you think I am? I'm not keeping Cashmere a secret from her, either. Believe it or not, Annie's the only one not trying to control who I have sex with."

"She doesn't care?" Haymitch looks disbelieving. "I thought you were engaged."

"You've never heard of an open marriage?" Half of Finnick's publicized affairs were with married admirers.

"In the Capitol, sure, but at home?"

Finnick shrugs. "I don't know what you're doing in Twelve, but it's not unheard of where I come from."

Haymitch raises his eyebrows. "Don't take this the wrong way, but sometimes I think the Career districts are closer to the Capitol."

Finnick doesn't take it the wrong way. He's always known that. "Yeah, well, the other districts think I'm too Capitol to be trusted, and Plutarch doesn't seem to think anyone from the districts can be taken seriously. Unless they're from Twelve, I guess."

Privately, Finnick thinks Katniss is the only reason Plutarch's willing to include Haymitch in the inner circle. But he's not stupid enough to say it.

"Try growing a beard," Haymitch suggests. "It'll make you look older."

Finnick laughs. "Good one. I would if I could." It's actually a good suggestion, and Finnick wishes he could take it.

Haymitch stares at him. "Why the hell can't you?"

"Remake. Since when did we get any control over our bodies?"

"But that's not permanent," Haymitch protests.

"It is if you won at fourteen. Nobody wanted me with facial hair, so I got the permanent version. I've never shaved in my life."

"Wow." Haymitch raises his glass toward Finnick in acknowledgement of what he's been through. "Guess I knew what I was doing when I got them to ignore me."

"That's nothing." Finnick nods toward Cashmere. "She was put through surgery before she even made it to the arena."

Haymitch just shakes his head. There are penalties for being too pretty in this country. Finnick never let himself resent it until now, firmly telling himself that some people had real problems, but now he's bitterly wondering if he'll ever be allowed to contribute anything again.

* * *

Once Finnick and several of the others have gone through the firearms training course, they're assembled in the auditorium and assigned to teams patrolling the district in search of refugees. As with all the meetings Finnick's been invited to, it's a large group of people receiving instructions. Either he's missing the important meetings where attendees get a say in the agenda, or they're all like this, and he's not missing anything.

"I have a number of contacts," Plutarch opens, "who know to come here, and rumors are spreading. Peacekeepers, rebels, Avox, anyone who made it out of Twelve or the other districts...I'm expecting an influx. At the same time, our enemy will be trying not only to keep them from arriving, but trying to infiltrate our ranks.

"I'll be in charge of vetting the new arrivals," Plutarch says sternly, with a distrustful glance at Cashmere. "You just get them to the designated outpost alive."

Finnick takes the barb as his cue. "And if the enemy catches on, and there's an ambush at the outpost?" It's the first question anyone's asked, and Plutarch frowns as much at the interruption as the content.

"Outposts will change with every mission. If they start catching on before we've used an outpost, I'll conclude we have a spy among us." Another glance at Cashmere.

Finnick bites back his instinct to rush to her defense. Best not to protest too much. Just get on with it. "I want Hawthorne on my team," he says instead. "He's supposed to be good in the woods."

Plutarch thinks, but he can come up with no reason to deny the request. "If he has no objection, then I have none."

Gale has no objection, just as Finnick expected. Finnick's used to living life on a pedestal, and he has a good sense of just how much attention Gale needs before it becomes too much. Back at home, he was idol for half the academy once he was older than they were.

"I need to know the terrain around here," Finnick tells him. "And you're going to show me."

"You've been here as long as I have," Gale reminds him. "Katniss and I never came this far over the border."

"But you know how to move in a forest, what to look for, what animals live around here, and how to track and hunt them, that sort of thing. Or so I've heard."

"Yes," Gale acknowledges.

"Well, these are the forests of the northeast. I'm used to the seas of the southwest. So you're going to teach me what I need to know."

This is how Gale finds himself out in the woods with his new role model, trying to correct him without giving offense.

Finnick laughs when he catches on. "No, come on. You have no idea what the academy was like. You need to be at least one thousand times harder on me."

Gale doesn't quite believe it, but he does his best at teaching, and Finnick watches and learns. As always, he gets feedback from his own body, figuring out what works and what doesn't by trial and error, more than by explanation.

Finnick finds himself annoyed and impressed when he realizes that Cashmere, silent beside him as always, is picking up the same skills while going ignored. When he remembers that he's trying to integrate her into the team in District Thirteen, he starts trying to draw her into the conversation, but she answers in monosyllables and withdraws as soon as possible. Eventually, Finnick gives up. He's not trying to torture her.

Gale's more willing to bond. When he first stops and ties a snare on one of their missions, Finnick lights up. They're supposed to be looking for fellow rebels, but they take an hour and stop to exchange knot lore. They're at roughly the same skill level, but with repertoires that don't completely overlap. As fast as Finnick can show Gale a new knot, Gale can pick it up, and vice versa.

Finnick loves acquiring new skills that he's good at. It makes him feel alive. "I think between the two of us," Finnick brags, "we know everything there is to know about knots."

"We've got it covered," Gale agrees, grinning. Then he shudders at the realization that he's laughing.

"It's all right," Finnick says gently. "You're going to laugh again."

"But they're dead," Gale whispers.

"I know." He puts a hand on Gale's shoulder. "Mags is dead." Without mentioning Gloss by name, he touches Cashmere's arm, including her in the circle of comfort. "But we're not."

Gradually, Finnick starts to realize that Gale needs this sort of mentoring. He's competent, and passionate about resistance, but young, and suffering from a lack of guidance.

Finnick may be used to being looked up to, but mentoring is scary new territory, after every attempt with trainees or tributes turned into a fiasco.

But here, there's no Mags, Rudder, Elspa, or other trainer to fill in for his deficiencies. Gale is full of initiative, but he's smart enough to realize the magnitude of the revolution and hope that someone else is more prepared than he is to handle it. He desperately wants to do something, but he's looking around for someone to tell him what needs to be done.

Well, so is Finnick. But he has Mags' voice in his head. He's been trained for this.

 _You're the only one who can help him,_ Mags tells him.

So Finnick advises on survivor's guilt, on keeping your head in a crisis, on setting reasonable expectations for yourself, and that sort of thing. He's better at advice than he is at technique, where he tends to fall back into old academy habits.

"Well, you can outrun me," Gale says on one of their excursions, half defensively, half teasingly, "but at least you had to get out of breath to do it. I can go all day, but there's not much call for sprinting when you're laying traps."

Finnick realizes he's been getting impatient lately, expecting Gale to keep up and looking back at him in exasperation when he doesn't. "No, you're plenty athletic, I'm just not always good at patience. Rudder used to give me a hard time and kick me out if I was getting too competitive with the trainees I was supposed to be helping."

He can see Gale trying to downplay the sting when he turns to Cashmere with a wink. "Was he making you feel bad too?"

"I'm the same way as you," Cashmere tells Gale, "more stamina than speed. But without the excuse of growing up in the woods. They made me do remedial work in sprinting."

"Well, you were right behind him, at least."

"Yeah, but he was slowing down for me to keep up. I watched at our mandatory evaluations before the Games. He was the fastest."

"Brutus was the strongest," Finnick adds. He's letting them think he was taking it easy on her today and not admitting this is the fastest he can go these days before getting winded. He's just tired, and with plenty of reason. He'll get his edge back.

"I couldn't believe how fast you were with the jabberjays-" Gale begins with admiration, but Finnick interrupts him bitterly.

"Yeah, that was stupid. I could have run right into a trap and gotten us both killed. Even without the benefit of hindsight, even if she really had been there, I should have come up with a plan first. Mags would have been disappointed."

 _You do not let your feelings interfere with the mission._ Mags' voice is more insistent in his head now that she's gone. Or maybe he only reaches for it more now, trying to fill the desperate gap where a mentor used to be.

Finnick's only defense is that Mags was newly dead, and he wasn't thinking clearly.

Gale raises his eyebrows. "Wow, that's hardcore. When the hovercraft came from Thirteen to airlift us, half of us ran toward it and the other half ran into hiding, thinking it was from the Capitol. I don't think anybody had a plan."

"You weren't trained," is all Finnick says. And then, "Wait, you were airlifted into Thirteen?"

"Yeah, different groups to different compounds. There were hundreds of us. I ended up in headquarters because I was the one who led the evacuation."

Finnick's eyes narrow. _I thought our 'craft had to be destroyed that same night._ "How big was was the hovercraft?" he asks casually.

Gale shrugs. "Compared to what? I've only been on the one."

"Were you able to fit everyone in it?" With hundreds of refugees, that will at least narrow it down to "huge" and "not huge."

"No, it was standing room only, and they had to make multiple trips." Gale unfocuses his eyes while he tries to visualize it. "I think it had seats for maybe forty, fifty people? But maybe there was more room in the back that I didn't see."

It could be the same one, then. And it's not exactly a secret, not if hundreds of strangers were allowed to know. But Finnick had been under the impression that District Thirteen was hovercraft-less.

He starts kicking himself, because there were hundreds of people on that 'craft, and he hasn't been talking to them, or he'd have known this by now. What kind of spy is he?

 _I didn't think I'd have to spy on my own side,_ he protests.

 _Call it gathering information, then, but you don't ever get to stop. People die when you take things for granted._

So Finnick starts spying on his own side. He keeps talking to Haymitch and Gale, but he casts a wider net for his attentions. He starts slipping around the compound, using all his training to see what he's not allowed to see and always have a good reason.

And he continues petitioning for a meeting with Plutarch until he finally gets one.

"Communications with District Four are still down," Plutarch says impatiently as soon as Finnick enters his office. "Beetee's recovering. As soon as he's in any kind of condition to work, I'm putting him on hacking communications. I'll get you updates as soon as we have them."

"That's great," Finnick says, sitting down. He doesn't miss the fact that Plutarch has an assistant present, nor that he doesn't look up from the documents he's reviewing. It's petty to care, but it's petty for Plutarch to be pulling this kind of shit on him in the first place. "That's not why I'm here."

That gets him an involuntary glance up. "Then what does bring you here?"

"I want more assignments. I have other skills you're not making use of. For instance, I've copiloted a hovercraft-"

"Military or civilian?" Plutarch returns his attention to the papers in front of him. Maps, Finnick sees. His fingers itch to pull them across the desk. But he does his best upside down.

"Civilian," Finnick admits, frustrated, "but the point is that if I managed to learn that on the sly and convey all that information to Four-"

"I have neither the time nor the resources to teach you how to operate a military 'craft in combat or in adverse weather conditions, nor do I have the need, because I already have all the qualified pilots I need."

"And trains, I memorized the controls-"

"Again," Plutarch says, more impatiently, "if I had no one who had ever operated a train or had any idea how they worked, that would be gold. It's commendable that you kept yourself busy as a victor, but in terms of proficiency, you have one skill that you're very impressive at. It is combat, and that is what I am using you for. You're on standby until the all-clear to go above ground again, and that's final. Enjoy the rest." He sighs in mild exasperation. "I don't have anyone else complaining about not being busy enough."

"No." A younger Finnick would have smirked; this one is just frustrated. "I suppose you don't. Are you interested in any information about what might be going on in Four? With communications down, after all, I am your only source."

Plutarch glances up again at that. "Do you have any information that's not completely out of date? You may not have heard this saying, but when I was in the military, we used to say that no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy."

 _I suppose if you were interested, you would have asked me a long time ago._

"Surely it's better than nothing," Finnick protests.

Plutarch shrugs. "Not necessarily. I won't be able to use any of this information until we have contact again, and when that happens, I'll have more up-to-date intelligence from my own people there. Right now, the entire west coast is out of reach for us. I'm sorry if that's causing you distress, but please try to be patient."

Finnick suppresses this urge to grit his teeth as they talk past each other. He's trying to contribute, and Plutarch is treating him like a needy child interrupting his parents. "Do you at least want to know the code phrases the leaders in Four will be using when they contact you?"

Plutarch looks surprised, then his face falls back into a neutral expression. "I have more contacts there than you perhaps realize. I think we'll be able to understand each other just fine."

"I see. So you have absolutely no interest in what the districts might be doing without your help." He rises. "Understood." Pearleye's going to have to take it from here. Nothing he says is getting through.

"Look." Plutarch sets his paper down, folds his hands on the table, and looks steadily across at Finnick. "I've put you in command every time I've sent you out into the field with a team. It's very clear you're good at that. But you have no experience with strategy or organization at the level of an entire army and more than half a country. Please don't try to do my job, and I won't try to do yours."

"Okay." Finnick doesn't say anything else, not because he agrees, but because he realizes he's not going to make any headway. He's not trying to do Plutarch's job, he's trying to get Plutarch to use him for more jobs. But only Mags ever understood that. Even at the academy back home, he was always being told to tone it down.

Well, Mags isn't here, so field command it is.

* * *

Without any other outlet for his rapidly reviving energy, Finnick spends as much time guiding refugees and taking out Capitol forces as possible.

He still favors Gale on his team, when he can get him. He takes Gale's advice seriously, even if he sometimes overrides it. But when he turns to Cashmere toward the end of one session and asks her if she has anything she'd like to add, her eyes go wide, like the teacher has called on her and she didn't hear the question, and she freezes. So Finnick hastily redirects attention away from her and apologizes later.

"I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I don't want to force you into anything you're not comfortable doing. I'm just trying to get this right, and I don't know how," he confesses.

"I'll participate if you want me to," she assures him, then adds more hesitantly, "though I'm not sure what I can contribute."

That's all she'll say: "Yes, I'm fine," and "I'll do whatever you tell me."

Everything is wrong, and Finnick doesn't know how to fix it. So he's just making it up as he goes along.

He can't quite decide why she's so afraid to speak up. She was more assertive in her Games, and if anything, this is less dangerous. At least he and Gale aren't planning to kill her in the next few days. And tracking down refugees in the woods and hunting the enemy, she should be in her element, even if her arena happened to be a desert.

Something is wrong, and it's nagging at Finnick. He needs to get to the bottom of this fading into the background act she's so good at.

When they've returned from their mission and are about to enter the compound that night, Finnick halts at the entrance and gestures to Gale. "Go on, we'll be in in a few minutes."

Just outside, in the pitch black, Finnick hands Cashmere a length of cord and aims his flashlight at her hands. "Do the strangle snare."

Perplexed, Cashmere obeys, and holds out the result for him to inspect.

It's flawless, of course. "Did you learn that from Gale?" Maybe she learned all this in her academy, or the training center in the Capitol at either of her Games.

She nods her answer, and then her eyes go wide. "I'm sorry, was I not supposed to? I'm not spying, I promise-"

"I know," Finnick assures her. "Come on, let's go inside and talk." On the way in, he doesn't let her slip behind his elbow into invisibility, but puts his arm around her shoulders.

In their room, he sits cross-legged on the mattress and gestures for Cashmere to join him. She looks at him apprehensively.

Finnick sighs. "You're not in trouble."

She still doesn't relax.

"I'm just...I keep swearing to myself that I'm not going to overlook you, and I keep catching myself doing it anyway. I spent ten years acting, and I know a good actor when I see one. I assume you got training performing for the cameras?"

Cashmere nods once.

"I thought so. I've seen you in dazzle mode, so if you're slipping out of everyone's awareness, you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm not spying," she whispers, but she doesn't sound like she's expecting to be believed.

"No, I know. You're trying to stay alive. You obviously don't feel safe here, no matter what I've said. And that's understandable, I suppose. The others haven't warmed up to you, and I can see why you might feel nervous until they do. I promise I'm working on them, but it's going to take time."

"I understand," Cashmere says, and again, the right words, but ringing hollow. He's starting to get the impression that she's telling him what she thinks he wants to hear. Well, isn't that what he always does?

"But I want you to feel safe with me, at least. If you don't feel like making conversation at a time like this, I can understand that, but I want you to know you don't have to tiptoe around me. I'm not going to abandon you for having opinions. Look at Katniss: she did nothing but insult and threaten me in the arena, and nothing but ignore me since we arrived here, and she has my unconditional support. The same goes for you. You can argue, demand explanations, make requests, speak up, whatever. You don't have to be invisible all the time. There won't be any consequences."

Cashmere is watching his facial expressions like her life depends on it. "I know I have your protection," she tells him.

"But..." Finnick prompts when she doesn't say anything more.

"And I'll do whatever you tell me, but if you want something, you have to tell me. I'm not very good at reading between the lines. I'm not very bright." She's still studying his face, hoping she's saying the right thing.

Finnick laughs involuntarily. "You keep saying that like if I hear it enough times, I'll believe it over the evidence of my own eyes." He shrugs. "Maybe I'm just pushing too fast. _I_ know you're safe with me, but you need time to believe it."

"No, I do," Cashmere insists. "You've always been kind to me."

"You don't act like you do," Finnick says, but then, neither did Annie, he reminds himself. It took time. Cashmere's just insisting that she does to placate him, because if she admits she doesn't feel safe with him, he'll be offended and abandon her. "It's all right," Finnick says, with a resigned sigh. "You don't have to, not yet. I just wanted to tell you you don't have to do the dance of everything I want and nothing I don't suggest."

"But I need someone to tell me what to do," Cashmere explains. "I don't have any ideas of my own." She hesitates as something occurs to her. "Or-"

"Go on," Finnick says, when it seems like she's waiting for permission to say something she's not sure of.

Here she's really watching him more intently than ever. Every word is like a tread onto thinner and thinner ice. "The last time...you told me I didn't have to pretend to feel anything."

When he had sex with her under Snow's orders, Finnick remembers. He was just doing his best to make that night as easy on her as possible, but who knows if he succeeded.

"And I thought...but maybe you only meant for that one night? I can pretend if you want me to. I did have acting lessons," she offers brightly. "Is that what you were asking?"

The deeper Finnick gets into this conversation, the more at a loss he feels. "No, I definitely meant I didn't want you acting here. With me. At all. That's why I don't want you hiding everything you think and feel to try to please me."

"But I..." Cashmere's voice trails off. "I can act," she says in the most lively voice he's heard her use since her last Flickerman interview. Even her body relaxes, like she's relieved to have finally figured out what he wants.

"No," Finnick presses, "tell me what you're thinking. You won't get in trouble. 'But I-'"

She waits, to be sure he really means it, then she ventures, "Everyone thinks they want to know the real me. But you saw the real me that night, the one that cries and has nothing to say. If that's not what you want after all, I have lots of experience with other personas."

Again, Finnick laughs darkly. "Yes, I know the feeling. The ones with romantic delusions, they think they're the only ones who can understand your inner self, and you've finally found your soul mate in them." He almost preferred the ones who paid for sex and took what they wanted. At least that was honest at some level. "I'm not going to do that to you, sweetheart." He hears the endearment fall instinctively fall from his lips and then wonders if it brings back as many painful echoes for her as it sometimes does for him...but he had been thinking of that night they shared, when they craved even the shadow of affection from each other.

"But you said you didn't want me to fade into the background, and I want you to know I don't have to."

This is hard to figure out. But maybe easier if he thinks of it as Annie hiding in her closet. "If that's what makes you feel safe, then that's what you need to do until you feel comfortable doing something else." The opposite of Annie, really. Annie will scream at you not to touch her, and Cashmere longs for touch but won't say anything.

Cashmere nods slowly. "And if you do want something else from me, all you have to do is tell me."

Finnick promises, if only to let her know that he won't spring surprises on her. "The same goes for you, if you want anything, or if you have any questions, ask away. Privately in here, if you don't feel comfortable around anyone else."

What he'd thought was a reassuring end to the conversation results in Cashmere staring at him like he's grown a second head. "Ask...questions?" she echoes in utter disbelief.

Finnick's frustrated again, mostly with himself. "Yes! You're not a prisoner, and I keep telling you that I don't believe you're a spy."

"I know that, but you wouldn't expect to ask questions at the academy," Cashmere says as though that's an entirely reasonable thing to say.

Now it's Finnick's turn to be flabbergasted. "Not ask questions at the academy?! Mags adopted me because I was asking more questions than the rest of the class could keep up with. I started coming over to her house after work to ask more questions, and next thing I knew I was living with her and quizzing her non-stop. What, they just drilled you all the time and didn't cover arena strategy or anything?" He realizes, as soon as he hears the words, that they sound arrogant, but it's too late to call them back.

Cashmere's frowning in confusion. "They sat us down and made us watch videos and attend lectures, but...they taught us what they expected us to know. Any time a student asks a question, you're supposed to tell them that the trainers know what they're doing, and the program has turned out more victors than any district except-" Now it's her turn to hesitate, realizing her own words could be taken as a barb against Four, the Career district in third place. She changes tacks quickly. "I just figured you were telling me everything you want me to know."

They look at each other from a gulf of understanding that they now realize is vaster than either of them could have imagined.

"Well, I certainly don't want you to pretend to be interested in something just to please me." He knows how many years they both spent doing just that for their lovers. "But if you don't understand something, or you're curious, I want you to feel free to ask. You won't be punished for asking, even if it ends up being something I can't answer.

"But right now, I want to hear more about this academy of yours where you weren't allowed to ask questions."

Ten minutes later, he has a much better understanding of the behavior that's been driving him crazy. Her silence; her accumulation of knowledge by observation only, without asking for clarification; her conviction that she's not that bright. Her fear of opening her mouth is only partly fear that Plutarch will change his mind and take her prisoner. It's even more the product of a childhood spent being scolded for speaking up, which her trainers called disrespect.

 _Oh, help, Mags, what do I do? This would be another one of your damaged children._ Finnick covers his mouth with his hands to hide his dismay. He always knew Cashmere had it rough, but he'd never thought it was more than the pain of navigating life as a victor with no mentor to warn her about Snow, and that was already the worst thing he could imagine.

"The rules here are different?" Cashmere ventures, when she's finished.

Mutely, Finnick nods.

"Then I'll follow any rule that you tell me about. I'm not good at figuring out what the expectations are on my own, but I'll try." She swallows a couple of times and goes bravely against every instinct she has to ask, "What are the rules here?"

 _They told you you weren't bright, but you were set up to fail._

Finnick holds out his arms. "Come here." Cashmere slides gladly onto his lap, and for a moment it's just like that night in the Capitol, except without Snow pulling the strings, and without the need to leave her to her own devices because she doesn't have any way to ask for help. Now he has all the time in the world.

"The first rule," he tells her, "is that if you ever don't understand anything, you ask me, without fear. I realize that may take a lot of effort, if you were always punished for it. You can, I don't know, tell me what you don't understand and I'll explain. You don't have to phrase it as a question if you're not comfortable doing that. Whatever's easier for you, really."

Cashmere nods, and for the first time, it doesn't feel like she's going through the motions. "Okay."

"The second rule is that you don't get punished for breaking the rules. With a background as different as yours, I don't think I can guess every question you'll have and explain it in advance. I'll do my best, but there will always be gaps. Don't be afraid of the gaps. If something goes wrong, tell me what you were thinking, and we'll make it right."

"Like me and Gloss?" she asks.

"You didn't punish him if he got something wrong?"

She shakes her head. "I always tried to help him follow the rules, and do the assignments. I could never have punished him."

Oh, good. Somewhere to start. "Exactly like that, then. Here to help you, never to hurt you."

"That sounds nice." It's obviously Cashmere's first time on the receiving end of a relationship like this, and Finnick hopes he can live up to it.

But it's got him wishing he'd paid more attention to the other Career victors. He does know he wasn't the only one with a list, even if Snow went to great lengths to make everyone think it was just them, but he can't remember much about Gloss specifically, no matter how he racks his brains.

Louder than Cashmere, he recalls. And drank more, or, like Finnick, pretended to. It's so damn hard to read these Careers who've always kept themselves alive on the strength of their performances. Not broken by the arena, so Snow must have done something to him. Chiseled good looks and a lot of sponsors, so logically...

Finnick's got the sense that Cashmere was so focused on being the older sister, setting a good example, living up to expectations, that this is her first time letting her guard down. His heart breaks for the wedge Snow drove between sister and brother, close as they were. Finnick can't bring back the dead, but he can give her a relationship where someone looks out for _her_ , and he wants to give her a tiny piece of her brother back, if only in memory.

"I'm sorry you never felt safe telling your brother about your life as a victor," Finnick begins. "My guess is that he would have understood, and that he didn't want to disappoint you-"

"No!" Cashmere shouts. "No, Gloss was smarter than me, he wouldn't have made that mistake. He was well-behaved—okay, he got in trouble sometimes at the academy, but he was just a kid then, and he always wanted to follow the rules. He wouldn't have done anything wrong."

Finnick shakes his head sorrowfully. "You weren't punished for anything you did wrong. You were punished for being successful. I told you, Snow tried to crush all of us who weren't already crushed."

"You didn't know him!" Her voice shakes with fury. "I was his older sister, I would have known!"

Cashmere is crying from her rage, and Finnick bites his tongue on further argument. He's trying to tell her she wasn't alone, didn't disappoint anyone, and it wasn't her fault, but she's committed to her denial, because the alternative is worse. The alternative is that her brother suffered too, that she didn't see, and that she failed to warn him or help him. And he can see where she'd rather believe it was just her.

"Okay, okay," he soothes. "You're right, I didn't know him. I'm sorry. Ssh, sweetheart, it's okay. I won't bring it up again."

Finnick is convinced he's right, but Gloss is dead, and there's nothing to be gained now by digging into his secrets. With a sigh, Finnick lets it go and wishes the other man some peace. Given Finnick's few memories of him and Cashmere's admission that he was more outspoken, he probably had a harder time with his clients than either Finnick or Cashmere, the compliant prostitutes.

Compliant when it's just her, maybe, but he's impressed by the way she leapt to her brother's defense. She won't stand up for herself, but she will stand up for him.

"You were a wonderful sister," Finnick says, patting her shoulder until her sobbing subsides. "He was lucky to have you."

"I always tried to help him," Cashmere tells Finnick, sniffling. "He had a harder time at the academy than I did, but they let us train together, and we helped each other. We were both lucky: a lot of students were trained alone, and we were supposed to be. They didn't want the kids distracting each other or giving each other ideas about disobedience. But because I was so dedicated, they decided to try an experiment to see if we could encourage each other instead. They didn't tell us this at the time, of course. They just said they'd separate us if we misbehaved. But later I worked at the academy, and they explained more."

Finnick remembers the way Rudder used peer pressure to his advantage, and wonders if Gloss would have made it through the program at all without Cashmere.

For the thousandth time, Finnick silently gives thanks for Mags. He doesn't know if he can be Mags, but all he can do is try.


	4. Chapter 4

I bring you the very exciting news that I've just finished editing this series, and I'm now going to put the remaining chapters up as fast as I can proofread them!

How many chapters, you ask?

FORTY.

So it may take a little while. But definitely more than one a week from here on out.

* * *

Gale holds a finger up to his lips to signal silence from Finnick, then points to the ground. It takes Finnick a minute to see it. A trail, where there wasn't one this morning. Human or animal, Finnick can't tell, but he follows Gale.

Human. They can just make out the form of a person—at least one, maybe more—crouching in the brush, hoping to go unnoticed.

Finnick gestures Gale to go first in case they're refugees, but hovers close behind and readies his gun in case they're not. _I've got your back,_ he mouths. Cashmere steps up beside Finnick, also ready with her knife.

Gale's unsure why he's being asked to take the lead, but he trusts Finnick enough to ask questions later.

After a tense standoff, both sides establish that they're at least all claiming to be rebels. Gale coaxes the party out of hiding. A middle-aged man and a youngish woman emerge. They're armed with knives but not guns, and Gale is in the middle of cautiously agreeing to let them keep their weapons, when the woman grabs her partner's arm and starts pulling him back the moment her eyes land on Finnick's face.

Finnick holds up an empty hand to her, with the other keeping the barrel of his gun pointed at the ground. "It's all right, I'm with the rebels." He keeps talking calmly. "I don't know when the last time you saw the news was, but I was with Katniss Everdeen in the arena, and we escaped together. This is Gale Hawthorne, also from District Twelve and a good friend of Katniss."

Enlightenment is dawning on Gale's face. "Yes, he's with us. Do you know the name Plutarch Heavensbee at all?" The man nods cautiously. Plutarch ran the underground circle in the Capitol for years, making him a likely point of contact in common. "We're taking you to see him. Come with us and you'll be safe."

As the woman reluctantly emerges again from the brush, Finnick finds himself staring at her face. The skin is like melted plastic, covered with ridges and scars from a bad burn. Gale quickly averts his eyes, but Finnick keeps looking. After the initial flush, she returns his gaze with hot hatred. Finnick stands his ground, drawing on all his training to look past the burn the same way he would makeup and figure out why she looks so familiar. Who is she? Does he have a reason not to trust her?

"What's your name?" Gale asks the man.

For answer, Gale gets only a gesture, the man's hand signing mutism across his lips.

The last puzzle piece drops into place in Finnick's head. "Avox. Dahlia. You used to work for Dahlia Morningglory." Involuntarily, his free hand flashes four fingers at her, the same gesture that she had once used to sign to him that she was from District Four. "I'm sorry," he says numbly. "I was undercover at the time. As a spy, for the rebellion."

The mottled rippling on her face is even more of an ineradicable reproach to him than the hard look in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Finnick repeats, feeling helpless. "Let's get you two somewhere safe. We have food, too—let's start with that."

Sitting in a circle around a large, flat boulder, they share bread and water. The Avoxes partially dissolve their bread, using their fingers to help it down. Swallowing is still difficult for them, and only Finnick's inculcation in the principle of "eat when you can" keeps him pushing food down past his own guilt.

Gale leans over to mutter, "That's why you wanted me to be the one to negotiate. You knew you'd be recognized."

"I've been too visibly linked to the Capitol for too many years," Finnick agrees. "I didn't want them opening fire immediately because they assumed I was here to kill or capture them."

Finnick's mind is only half on his words, and he misses Gale's response. Across the improvised table, he's watching hands fly and frantically trying to follow.

He doesn't catch up until he sees the woman spelling something out, letter by letter. The alphabet he knows better than the language.

 _-I-C-K O-D-A-I-R._

Remembering the letters helps warm his brain up and helps him catch some of the nouns in the following snatch of dialogue.

 _Fuck – something – Capitol._

The man signs, _Victor, yes?_

 _Yes._

Finnick pieces the exchange together to realize he's just been introduced, probably as the fucktoy of the Capitol. He decides it would be tasteless to ask where the man's been the last ten years. As an Avox, probably nowhere he cares to remember.

 _Something – marry – D-A-H-L-I-A – house – fire._

"I didn't refuse to marry her," Finnick protests. "I know you only have my word for this, but I had my bags packed when I got the news." She listens skeptically while he recounts the story of Mags' stroke, his rush to borrow Dahlia's hovercraft to get Mags to the Capitol, and the punishments that followed. The pilot who flew the 'craft to Four succumbed to poison. Annie's medication suffered an unfortunate shortage.

Finnick knew that the demand for him in the Capitol kept him safe from physical harm, but he it wasn't hard to guess he'd be made to move to the Capitol, so he did what he always did: he made it his idea, before Snow could decide to threaten anyone over it.

Then Dahlia's house entire household died in an 'accidental' fire. Or at least so Finnick had been told. "Did anyone else make it out?"

No.

"I'm sorry. I was prepared to marry her if it meant Mags got to live. Mags died in the arena last month, if you didn't get to watch."

It's all the truth, but it's only part of the truth, as usual. When Mags had her stroke, Finnick was an old hand at playing the President's games and keeping his head above water, and he got the outcome he was maneuvering for.

None of this Finnick says out loud, but there's still a stunned silence, while they take this in. In the end, no one feels comfortable delving further into the topic, so Gale changes the subject.

"So you know their sign language?" he demands, teasing but also exasperated. "Is there anything you can't do?!"

 _Lots_ , Finnick wants to say.

Gale stretches to put Cashmere in his line of vision. "Does he make you feel inadequate too?"

"I don't know any sign language either," Cashmere answers in her quietest voice. She still speaks only when spoken to, and gives the briefest possible inoffensive answers.

Finnick has been feeling faintly irritated on occasions like this, because if it's just her history at the academy holding her back, she should have noticed by now you can get away with being a lot more assertive here. So her meekness must mean she still doesn't feel safe, no matter what he says.

He's been taking that personally, but after their encounter with the Avox today, where he held back to keep from getting shot on sight, he suddenly sees Cashmere's situation through new eyes. He can tell her until he's blue in the face that he's committed to keeping her from harm, and maybe she'll someday know him well enough to believe that he won't change his mind, but all he has to do is get himself killed on a mission like this, and she's on her own in a rebellion that sees her as a mole.

That's not safety. Katniss may resent being used, but at least she knows the revolution needs her. Telling Cashmere to look at how assertive Katniss is isn't nearly as helpful as Finnick meant it to be. Cashmere hasn't made it this far without being able to assess danger realistically.

Shoving down his shame, Finnick gets his thoughts back on track. "After Mags had her stroke, I got someone to teach me. I can't sign with any kind of fluency, but I picked up as much vocabulary as I could in a short time, to try to help her communicate."

More fudging, but the young woman's expression has softened somewhat, as if to say, _Well, if it was for_ _Mags_ _..._

"What are your names, then?" Gale asks, just as they're rising to head back, and looks at Finnick to translate.

 _P-O-L-L-U-X_. And _C-O-R-A-L._

 _Something – brother – C-A-S-T-O-R._

"Of course you do," Finnick jokes. It's almost obligatory if you're named Pollux.

 _See?_ Pollux signs more emphatically.

Despite Gale's awe, it's both frustrating and humiliating to have to be spoken baby talk to. Signing is a fully-fledged language, Finnick just needs the luxury to learn it properly. Like so many skills he picked up in the Capitol, he has only a superficial command. "Oh, have I seen him? No, but we'll ask Plutarch."

On the way back, Finnick takes Cashmere's hand in silent apology for letting her succeed at getting everyone to ignore her.

* * *

After a string of equally successful missions, Finnick's both frustrated and half hopeful when a blizzard pins them underground and leaves him at loose ends again. Maybe by now he's been outstanding enough that can get something else to do. He wants to know things, find things out, be more than a tool operating in the darkness.

He's encouraged by the way he gets an appointment with Plutarch more easily this time, but his hopes are dashed in the first few minutes of the discussion.

"I'm not saying I have information about Snow's military that you don't," Finnick tries explaining for what feels like the millionth time. The only thing that's changed is that Pollux is now the assistant standing silently behind Plutarch's shoulder. "I'm saying, isn't it the least bit impressive that this information you acquired as part of your job, I managed to acquire when it was completely forbidden for me to know any of this?"

"Yes," Plutarch says so patronizingly that Finnick can practically feel an invisible hand descending to pat him on the head, "it was very impressive given the limitations of your background. But if you're willing to recognize the limits of your background, then surely you can recognize that I have a great many sources of information without those limitations, many other people who've been in the military or held government positions or both. Please don't take this as a shortcoming on your part. You've been fantastic at every assignment I've set you, the success rate of your search and rescue missions has been everything I could have hoped for, and you are a valuable member of the rebel force."

Finnick shakes his head in disbelief. "And you don't see my information-acquiring skills as anything that might be of use to you right now? This argument is making no sense to you?"

"The amount of information you're likely to get me at this point that I don't already have access to is not worth distracting you from your primary task."

"But I don't have a primary task! Not until the snow melts."

"So get some rest," Plutarch repeats. "This is part of being in the military. There are hectic parts and boring parts."

"Why are you so willing to believe in my loyalty but not my intelligence?" Finnick asks.

Plutarch gives him a look of deep pity, the reason for which becomes clear when he says, "I know what Snow did to those of you victors with a lot of sponsors."

Finnick stops short. He told Haymitch, but...

"It wasn't common knowledge," Plutarch tells him, accurately reading his expression. "But I was head Gamemaker."

Finnick gestures toward Cashmere, standing behind him. "Well, then, I have news for you-"

"No, I know," Plutarch says, and the pity doesn't leave his face. "But her district isn't in rebellion."

Finnick feels like he's talking to a brick wall. Nothing he says makes an impression. "And your district is—oh right—the Capitol, and I trust you why?"

"The fact that I have to explain this to you is why I'm not willing to put a great deal of trust in your judgment. I've been organizing this rebellion and planting contacts throughout Panem since before you were born. She defected to save her own skin and didn't find out about the rebellion until she arrived here. She is a huge liability, and the only reason I'm giving her any freedom at all is that I do trust your loyalty and that you're keeping an eye on her."

Finnick could keep insisting, but they're both frustrated. He decides to end it there, before he can ask, _So if I handed Cashmere over to you, you'd have a higher opinion of my judgment?_

Because he knows the answer is yes, and he isn't sure why he won't do it. He was ruthless enough to kill children and let Mags die; to try to manipulate Snow into killing Dahlia while at the same time he prepared to leave Annie for her; to give away his body to all comers and act ditzy where anyone was looking; to call Mags an annoying old lady on camera and Annie a boring crazy girl who cries a lot but puts out. Hell, he regrets running in to rescue Annie without coming up with a good strategy first.

It would be so easy, and such good strategy, to stop sacrificing his own credibility through his insistence on keeping Cashmere by his side at all times, and he'd be able to contribute so much more.

Instead, on the way out, Finnick puts an arm around Cashmere's shoulder, not forgetting that she heard that entire conversation and must be waiting for the day he decides Plutarch is right.

"You're with me," Finnick says. It looks like he's finally found his own personal line in the sand.

His line in the sand is selfish, Finnick thinks that night. He looks at Cashmere and he sees himself in a cracked mirror. And he holds Cashmere and stays sane, because something is signaling his body _stay here, sleep, you're not alone, Annie will be okay_. He sleeps instead of tormenting himself, and he focuses on his work. He doesn't fall apart. And he leans more heavily, he thinks, on Cashmere than she leans on him.

* * *

Excluded from meetings, with missions on hold until the heavy snows let up, Finnick starts pestering everyone in the compound with skills he doesn't have for training. Beetee's still recovering, and none of the Thirteen engineers have the time for him, so that's out.

When he learns, though, that Mrs. Everdeen has some skill in healing, he pounces on the chance to learn from her. She's cold toward him, but efficient and willing to teach. Finnick wonders what Katniss has said about him, but he's not going to turn down this opportunity. Maybe it'll give him the chance to bond with one of the Everdeens, if she warms up to him. If not, at least he's learning something useful.

He and Cashmere learn how to take a pulse, a lot about wound care, and a thing or two about medicinal plants. Most importantly, they learn to avoid a number of stupid mistakes.

"You don't have to learn any medicine if it brings back painful memories," Finnick remembers to tell Cashmere after their first lesson.

"Am I allowed to?" Then she catches herself and checks, "You said I was allowed to ask questions about the rules, right?"

Finnick feels completely out of his depth with her, as always. "Yes, always ask. And yes, you're allowed to learn anything I'm learning, but you don't have to."

"No," Cashmere decides, "if it were you wounded, I'd like to be able to help more. We learned a little first aid at the academy, but Mrs. Everdeen knows a lot more."

"Same here," Finnick says. "So learn anything you want. And you see me asking questions all the time and not getting in trouble, don't you?"

Cashmere nods.

"Well, so you can you. Those are the rules."

She never does, but in the face of Mrs. Everdeen's forbidding attitude, Finnick can't blame her. He takes the opposite approach: quizzing the woman as intently as if he were at the academy, volunteering to help whenever he can, and showing off his memory when it comes to memorizing plants and their properties.

"When the snow lets up," he offers, "I'll bring you what I can recognize when I'm on my missions. Do you think it'll warm up again, or are we stuck down here for the winter?" If they are, he'll either be an expert healer by spring, or he'll have gone mad from boredom.

"I would appreciate that," Mrs. Everdeen says stiffly. "They have a lot of know-how here, but not a lot of supplies. I think you'll get your chance. If the winters here are anything like Twelve, it'll melt and the sun'll come out again. I'll teach you what you can find this time of year, and come spring, there'll be a lot more."

"Mom, have you seen P—What are you doing here?!"

Finnick whips around, smiles at Katniss. "Your mother's teaching me some basics of field medicine. It would have come in handy in the arena if I'd known half as much as you did. Why don't you join us?"

Cashmere's face tightens. Reflected in her blue eyes, Finnick can see an arrow punching into Gloss's chest.

How in the rolling sea is he supposed to reach out to both of them?

"What do you want from me?" Katniss demands.

Actually getting a question startles him. Normally, this is where she turns around and makes an ostentatious exit. Maybe, if he can find the right words... "Look, I don't blame you if you're-" but she cuts him off.

"I'm being your Mockingjay. I didn't ask Mags to do what she did. I'm sorry if I haven't lived up to your expectations."

"I just want-"

But she's gone, leaving Finnick standing frustrated. Wrong words. Again.

"I wish I knew where to start."

"If she won't tell you and you can't figure it out," her mother says, "I can't help you."

Finnick can't tell if that's because she doesn't know, she's respecting her daughter's privacy, or she's refusing to help. She's politer than Katniss, but not much more forthcoming.

Haymitch is. "Hey, she yelled at you. That's progress."

Finnick snorts. "Guess so. She's been yelling at you this whole time. It can't all be about my reputation, right?"

Belatedly, he realizes that Mrs. Everdeen will teach him field medicine, but never, ever, with her younger daughter in the room. Shit. Now he knows what Katniss has been telling her mother. _She's a child!_

Finnick can't remember if he ever felt like a child.

"Nah," Haymitch assures him, "I've decided it's just something she latches onto when she gets worked up. I'm pretty sure she's just mad at you for the same reason she's mad at us all: saving her over Peeta, manipulating her into being the Mockingjay, saving Peeta in order to manipulate her into being the Mockingjay."

"But that was a compliment!" Finnick blurts. "We wouldn't have gone to those lengths for anyone else."

Haymitch shrugs. "Still manipulation."

Finnick ponders this new revelation. He always knew when Mags did this to him that it was her way of saying _You're the only one I can count on for this._ Whether he wanted to do it or not, a part of him always glowed inside from the trust and the praise. And he always did it.

But Haymitch-and-Katniss isn't Mags-and-Finnick, family and team and partners in crime for most of Finnick's life. Katniss has barely known Haymitch a year, and that bond simply isn't there.

Maybe Finnick just needs to give them time.

Meanwhile, the weather saves his sanity. It clears up, just as Mrs. Everdeen had predicted, enough that Finnick's missions resume.

He even ends up grateful to the lull in action, when his new skills come in handy when Gale gets hit in a firefight. Gale staggers and drops his gun, and Finnick curses. In one movement, he ducks and rolls, trying to keep moving and present a small target while getting closer to Gale. They'd been spread out in an effort to keep them all from getting taken out at once.

"Grab his gun and cover us!" he shouts at Cashmere while dragging Gale into retreat. They're in landmine territory, which means he needs to be canny.

Keeping the map in his head, Finnick guides them uphill. It puts them briefly in a more exposed position, but in order to get close enough to take advantage, the enemy will have to cross a minefield. That's assuming that there aren't other snipers around approaching from other angles, but he doesn't have many options.

Finnick pulls Gale to the ground behind a large boulder. Cashmere takes one some distance away, holding her newly acquired weapon at the ready. Finnick pinches one ear with his shoulder and presses the other against the boulder. The others copy him, a few seconds before the explosions hit.

He thinks that's all of the Peacekeepers, but just to be safe, he gestures at Cashmere to stand guard where she is, before he turns to inspect Gale.

It's just a graze, making him sigh in relief, but there's blood everywhere. "It's all right, it's just a face wound," Finnick assures Gale, dabbing at the wound. "They always bleed like a bitch."

"I've had worse," Gale insists. He's shaken, but holding up. "More blood, more pain."

"It'll hurt more later," Finnick promises, cleaning it of dirt as best he can. He tries to work around Gale's winces without compromising on thoroughness.

"Do me a favor?" he says when he's finishing up and they're just waiting for it to stop bleeding. "When we get back, tell them Cashmere saved your life? I want her armed on the next mission, and I mean really armed, not a fucking knife. This is ridiculous."

"Sure," Gale promises. Finnick feels him jerk hard. He immediately starts checking for a second wound that he missed, but then he realizes what's happening.

"Go ahead and shake," Finnick tells him gently. "It's just adrenaline. I did, after my first battle."

"She didn't," Gale gasps with a glance toward Cashmere, keeping a lookout across from them.

"Well, maybe she had full-time training for thirteen years. And maybe she did after all and they just didn't show it." Come to think of it, Finnick's own little episode was shown live but didn't make the edited version. "Anyway, I did, so you certainly can."

Gale shudders for a bit, and then starts trying to get to his feet. "I'm fine. Let's go."

Finnick tugs on his arm. "Keep your head low. I'm not sure they're all gone." If no one's firing at the moment, it means the boulders are acting as bulwarks, so Finnick tries to keep them all moving at an angle that preserves their usefulness as long as possible.

He has a good head for terrain, which is the only reason they're allowed in this part of Thirteen. The inhabitants have laid minefields to protect their settlements, which has allowed them to hold out this long. But the maps aren't allowed outside the underground compounds, lest they be captured. So Finnick fought for the opportunity to show off his memory to the local leadership, and now he's authorized to move his team in dangerous territory. He wouldn't put it past Cashmere to have the same ability, but since she won't demonstrate anything she can do, everything is riding on him.

And he's still not allowed in strategy meetings. It's driving him crazy.

On the way back, Finnick keeps close to Gale and tries to occupy him with conversation. Just because he's been hurt before doesn't mean today was sunshine and roses. "So what's this about bleeding more? Did you run into a bear? I never have, but I've heard all about them from Johanna."

"Really?" Gale looks at Finnick with surprise.

Finnick nods seriously. "Bear lore is a big deal up there." He's prepared to distract Gale from his injury with secondhand stories, but he'd rather have Gale's story if the boy doesn't mind sharing it.

"I'd rather meet a bear than Commander Thread." Gale sighs, but starts talking.

Of course it's the Peacekeepers. When Gale gets to the part where Katniss ran up to the flogging post, Finnick jolts. "Oh, that was you! We saw that, but we never saw your face clearly. And they cut out as soon as she came up. My god, that was brave."

"And stupid?" Gale asks wryly.

Well, yes. Gale strikes Finnick as the impulsive, reckless type. The type everyone thinks Finnick is when they don't see all the calculations going on behind the pretty face. But Gale's young and didn't have Mags' mentoring.

"Maybe necessary," Finnick says placatingly, "if you were on your own and trying to get your district to fight back. Not necessary any more. We have better uses for you than as a martyr."

"I'm glad," Gale admits. "Not just because I don't know if I could do that again, but just because we're finally fighting!"

Finnick smiles. "You remind me of a good friend who also wanted nothing more than to fight back."

It only takes Gale a minute. "Johanna Mason? Johanna of the bears?"

Finnick winks. "Johanna of the 'I'd rather face a bear than not have her on my side.' I hope she's all right," he sighs. "Or, I hope she survives long enough that she's all right again someday."

Gale squeezes his elbow briefly. He knows what it's like to wait for someone to come home and not know if they will.

"So when are you going to teach me to fight properly?" Gale asks later, as they walk.

Finnick looks at him and sees that his face is less pale, and his voice sounds steadier. Good. "You shoot as well as I do."

Gale makes a sound of disdain. "Guns are nice and all, but you had years and years of training. You know how I can move in a forest better than you? You can move in combat better. I can see the difference."

It's true. The same goes for Katniss. She was standing in easy trident range when they had their staredown in the arena. If she'd made a move, Finnick's convinced he could have taken her easy, and disarmed her without even hurting her.

He's impressed that Gale is aware of the difference and wants to close the gap. It makes Finnick all the more disappointed that he has to refuse.

"I would if I could," he says honestly. "I can't teach. If Rudder were here, he'd tell you. I wasn't allowed to teach at the academy, or even mentor. You wouldn't blame him and Mags, if you'd seen some of my spectacular failures."

"You taught me a bunch of knots!" Gale protests.

"I demonstrated them at full speed. And you were advanced enough to follow along the first time. But beginner lessons? I don't care how quick you are to learn, I'm just not the one to teach you."

Gale looks disappointed, but Finnick just shrugs. Mentoring is one thing, but he's not going to throw away all his influence with the guidance he is good at giving, by getting risking them impatient with each other over combat skills.

"Actually, forget Rudder, ask Katniss. I showed her the trident once. And some knots. She'll tell you. The only thing I was after was trying to let her get to know me so we could have an alliance. If she managed to learn anything in spite of me, all credit goes to her."

Cashmere is walking quietly to the side, as always, when Finnick suddenly looks at her searchingly. She raises her head, feeling his eyes. They look at each other for a while, until she figures out what he wants. He's promised not to put her on the spot, but if she wants to volunteer, that's another matter.

"I taught at the academy," Cashmere says. "They didn't tell me I was especially good, but they definitely told you if you were especially bad, so that must mean I'm not."

"Well, you can't be worse than I am." Finnick looks at Gale and gestures toward Cashmere. "She has sixteen years of experience-"

"Fifteen," Cashmere corrects quietly. "They only let you start the year after your Games."

"Fifteen years at an academy that turned out twice as many victors as mine. If you can talk her into it, she's your best bet. But I'm not going to force her into doing anything she doesn't want to."

"I like teaching," Cashmere says mildly. "I know how to do it."

After she has a few supervised sessions with Gale and some of the other interested locals, Finnick manages to convince Plutarch that Cashmere is a godsend. "So, if I go on a mission today and leave her in the training room, is it too much to ask that I'll come back and she'll still be in the training room, not tied up or anything?"

"Very well," he yields, "but she stays there, under supervision, and works for us."

Finnick goes to tell Cashmere he's leaving for a few hours. He knows she feels safest with him around, but that will continue to be the only place she's safe unless he can get the others used to seeing her as someone who contributes in her own right, and not just his shadow. In a voice pitched just for her ears, he instructs her, "Tell me when I get back if anyone makes you feel unsafe while I'm gone: lays a hand on you, threatens you, or even looks at you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, okay?"

She nods.

As he's leaving the room, Finnick calls to her, "Knock 'em dead, Amazon."

* * *

Weeks pass before Finnick is finally invited to a real meeting. In the conference room, not the auditorium. He quells the rush of excitement by cynically reminding himself that it must not be important. Still, he moves fast down the hall, Cashmere at his elbow as always.

When Finnick walks in, he sees Plutarch sitting at the head of the table, hands folded across a piece of paper. Out of habit, he begins to scan it, then almost faints in relief.

"They don't have her!" he cries. "They don't have Annie."

Plutarch looks up in shock. "What's your source of intelligence? Have you heard from Four?"

Finnick blinks, not understanding the question. He gestures at the list under Plutarch's hands. "That's a price on her head, right? If they have her, why would they put a price on her?"

"You can read this?" Plutarch asks in disbelief. "Upside down from across the room?"

"Oh, that. Yes, it was part of my spy training." Finnick takes his seat, then notices the shock on other faces. "I'm sorry, was it supposed to be a surprise?" He can feel his own cheeks glowing from relief.

"You're full of surprises," Plutarch says, looking at him with interest. "And yes, I was waiting until everyone got here. Since the cat's out of the bag, yes, this is a list the Capitol has issued of the top ranks of revolutionaries and how much we're worth to them. We'll go over it in a minute."

Plutarch is highest, of course, then Katniss. Rudder. Pearleye. Beetee.

"They're overestimating my worth these days," Beetee interrupts bitterly, from his wheelchair.

"No, they're underestimating your brain," Plutarch says.

"Who's Pearleye?" Haymitch wants to know. "Not a victor."

"And Rudder?" Katniss adds, breaking her silence.

Haymitch knows that one. "Victor in Forty-Five," he tells her.

"Both District Four leaders," Plutarch answers. "I haven't gotten the details from my sources yet, but Four must be making quite the fuss."

All eyes turn to Finnick.

Finnick grins. "We know how to throw a party."

Finnick. Annie. Haymitch. On the list goes. Brine is on it, pretty far down, but not Donn, or Octavius. That tells Finnick something about how the fighting's gone at home. Cashmere's on it as well. Finnick takes her hand, and she holds tight. His heart is soaring with relief over Annie and gratitude to his people for keeping her safe, but at the same time, he feels wretched over Cashmere.

At least she's not being tortured, Finnick reminds himself. The names that aren't on this list are worse.

 _Johanna._

* * *

With Beetee back in action, it's not long before the rebels in Thirteen are recording propaganda.

Finnick leaps at the opportunity to do something that he's good at that isn't just weapons prowess. To the eye-rolling of everyone else and a few muttered comments that this isn't the Capitol, he gets his hands on some makeup, and does some quick improvisational work in a mirror with water, fingers, and his hair.

"Come on, we're ready to start!"

"Excuse me, but I am the expert here!" Finnick calls over his shoulder, still testing angles in the mirror. There is an actual point to looking good on camera, not just vanity.

After years of helping with the propaganda planning in District Four, as well as doing propaganda for Snow, Finnick isn't short on opinions about what image to present and how to present it. After some hesitation, Plutarch lets him in on the planning.

Everything is going swimmingly until Plutarch starts drawing attention to the advantages of a public message from Cashmere, the one member of a loyalist district they have.

Finnick doesn't disagree, but he finds himself planting himself in front of Cashmere again.

"I will say whatever you want on camera. I have been committed to this cause since Mags inducted me. But if you force her into saying what she doesn't believe, I will go back to doing propaganda for Snow, because I don't see the difference."

"If she doesn't believe in what we're doing, she doesn't belong here," Plutarch insists.

"Well, I kind of told her it would be different here, that we wouldn't be forcing her to do things like the Capitol did. I'd like it if you didn't make a liar of me." Finnick's still hoping she comes to see that sometimes it's better to fight back than to always follow the rules, but she needs time.

Right on cue, Cashmere's voice comes from behind Finnick, upbeat and eager to please. "I'm happy to say whatever you want me to say."

Finnick grits his teeth, because while he understands where she's coming from, this is exactly what he was trying to prevent.

"You see," says Plutarch reasonably, "she doesn't mind-"

"Look," Finnick says impatiently, "I don't know if you've thought her situation through, but she's one step short of a prisoner, and maybe not even that. Of course she's going to agree to whatever makes us happy. That doesn't mean we have a free pass on taking prisoners and making them dance to our tune."

"If you ignore everything she says, how do you propose to know what she's thinking?" asks Plutarch.

"How about when she stops having a reason to be afraid of us and to placate us?" How is it not obvious what she's doing? Maybe Plutarch's never been so much in someone else's power that he'd agree to anything to stay alive or protect someone else.

And with a shock, Finnick realizes that he is standing here defying the highest authority to protect someone else, with no fear of the consequences. It's like being at home, arguing with Pearleye. Maybe it's different here after all, because he remembers promptly and eagerly agreeing every time Snow spoke to him.

"It's okay," Cashmere tries assuring Finnick, putting a hand on his elbow. "I don't mind helping out. You saved my life."

Finnick puts his hand briefly over hers. "Cashmere, it's all right. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

She subsides nervously, but even that gives Finnick a sinking feeling. Now she's afraid because Finnick and Plutarch are fighting over her. There is no right thing to do.

Plutarch has his arms folded and a frown on his face, but Finnick faces him steadily. "I will do whatever you want. I will give this cause everything I have. But you will give her time."

Plutarch's not happy, but he knows how to pick his battles. "We'll discuss it tomorrow, then. We're just finishing up here."

As soon as they enter their room that night, Cashmere's agreeable mask drops, to reveal a frantic, almost panicking, interior. "Finnick, you have to do what they want!"

"I know," Finnick says tightly. "I did everything they wanted for ten years. Twenty-four. But it's different now."

Cashmere only shakes her head with her eyes wide, unable to argue but unconvinced.

Overwhelmed with responsibility, Finnick sinks onto their bed and buries his face in his hands. "Come here, sweetheart."

As always, she folds herself up against him, but he can feel her whole body braced for conflict.

Finnick sighs. "I wanted to protect you, but you're afraid of what will happen if you don't cooperate with Plutarch, aren't you?"

Still very withdrawn in on herself, unwilling to commit to any assertions that might make anyone one unhappy, Cashmere says nothing, but he can feel her waiting to see where he's going with this.

Yes, he remembers complying with Snow's every whim. He remembers sleeping with Cashmere because he couldn't refuse her the right to make her own choices about how to survive. If he's insisting to Plutarch that she hasn't had time to absorb the differences between District Thirteen and the Panem that she's used to, how can he insist to her that she needs to absorb, immediately, that defiance is safe here?

"I let Mags die because she and I thought it was worth it, to make a new world order. I wanted to be sure there would be no more forcing and no more acting out of fear. But I guess that takes time.

"Of all people, I should know that. I'm still getting used to not having to sell my body—to not being _allowed_ to trade my body for what I need."

Exhausted, wishing for the millionth time that he had someone to give him advice, Finnick presses his face into Cashmere's hair. "You do whatever makes you feel safe, okay? And I'll back you no matter what."

Cashmere nods, and palpable relief flows through her every muscle. "I'll cooperate," she says softly. "And we'll be safe."


	5. Chapter 5

At first, Cashmere is on alert when Finnick starts talking in the evenings before they fall asleep. He's said he doesn't want her to fake interest and start making up questions, but then again, nobody wants her interest to be faked. Everyone wants to believe it's for real. Maybe he's expecting she'll start spontaneously talking to him.

But every time she tries, he stops and reminds her that he doesn't want anything from her. Finnick seems to have a sixth sense for when she's performing, which either means her acting skills have gotten worse, or that his are really sharp.

"I've spent my life in a performance," Finnick tells her, "and it's exhausting. All I want from you is to lie here and relax without worrying about living up to expectations. If me talking is making it harder for you to relax, I'll stop."

A few more back-and-forths of "are you sure?" and Cashmere tentatively lets herself believe that he won't be disappointed if she doesn't listen, much less talk. It takes time before she can let the words wash over her unheard, but when she does, she finds it's the most soothing thing in her world right now. The sound of his voice fills up the heavy silence, and draws her outside of herself just enough that she can grieve without drowning in her grief.

He's kind about that too, holding her and crooning his encouragement while she cries into his shoulder. Cashmere knows, somehow, that he would listen if she too needed to talk. But it's too soon, too raw, to put Gloss into words.

"I understand," Finnick tells her. "I can't quite talk about Mags yet either. But Annie's safe. Probably," he says harshly. "For all I know she's lying dead in a ditch somewhere and the Capitol just hasn't found her body yet to take her off the list. But I can't help believing she's safe, with Rudder's name on the list. And so I can't stop wanting to talk about her, now that I think she's not being tortured. If you don't mind."

Cashmere doesn't. And listening to the tone rather than the words allows her to hear something she might otherwise have missed, a heart-rending loneliness that matches hers. She'd thought at first that, because Finnick knew the people here and was up to his ears in a revolution that he helped plan, he must be in his element. It was only her stranded in a strange land.

But now she's seen the way Katniss ignores him and her mother treats him coldly and Plutarch talks down to him, and she's willing to believe he keeps her close and holds her at night not only because she desperately needs it, but because he does.

How he can tell the difference from her desperate attempts to please him, Cashmere doesn't know, but whenever she puts her arms around him in response to their shared loneliness, Finnick only gives her a grateful look and doesn't insist that he doesn't expect anything from her.

Cashmere still spends her days scared to death of the day Finnick gives into the pressure to give her up. If not because he believes that she's a threat, then at least because he's taking the fall for her defection. And most of all because any other outcome is unthinkable, even at the best of times.

Even Gloss tells her so, in her nightmares. She wishes he were here, and then she cringes, because it's better that he's not. He has nothing but reproaches for her defection, and the way she's letting Finnick make a fool of her. _You know you're not going to hold his attention for long,_ his beloved voice reminds her, full of scorn.

 _I know,_ she admits. _But you're dead, and he's all I've got._

She knows she should have a backup plan for the day Finnick abandons her, but when it's just the two of them, Cashmere can't help letting herself be comforted, foolish though it is. If not for that, she'd be curled up in a corner somewhere sobbing, afraid to move, and probably taking a knife to her wrists because she failed her brother so completely. She still thinks, in her darker moments, that she should, but her survival instinct is strong enough that she clings to the one tie to life she has left. The one person who doesn't want anything she can't give, but casually includes her on missions and wants her armed. The one person whose determination means she doesn't have to be alone. The one person who tries to explain the rules. The one person who knows her secrets and her failures and still trusts her.

Cashmere feels like she's drowning, but her head is breaking the surface just often enough to gulp down air before she goes back under. Maybe one day she'll be able to swim again.

* * *

Cashmere's first thought when Finnick shows up in the middle of one of her lessons is that she's done something wrong. Someone's complained about her teaching, or she's violated his trust and isn't allowed to be on her own any more.

But he only smiles at her, before he's mobbed by eager students. "No, no, I can't teach you anything. No, I'm serious. Okay, maybe I can do a demo with Cashmere, but she'll have to explain it. Cashmere, you up for a demo?"

Cashmere blinks in surprise at the whirlwind of informality, but nods. "Of course."

Sparring with Finnick is relaxing, because for once she can be sure she's getting it right. It'd be nice if they could do this every day, but she knows he's keeping busy, and she doesn't want to complain.

When they're done, and she's back to working with the students, he just finds a spot off to the side where he sits and watches. Every time she glances over at him, he's smiling, so she knows she's doing all right.

"How's training going?" Finnick asks when they walk out together. He looks tired, so she steps in close to him, knowing he'll put his arm around her shoulders. "The students behaving themselves?"

At once, Cashmere is overwhelmed with a flood of memories she'd been trying to shove to the back of her mind.

 _The gossip flows around her like she's not in the room._

 _"Johanna and Cashmere. One all looks and no personality, the other all personality and no looks."_

 _"Well, no one ever said he was picky."_

 _"You get lucky yet, Gale?"_

 _"Oh, I wish! Finnick says everyone needs to keep their hands off her."_

 _"Aww. Who's going to tell him, I'd like to know."_

 _"Who's going to beat him in a fight, that's all I need to know."_

 _"You're no fun."_

 _The ones who talk to her are just as bad._

 _"When did you first decide you wanted to volunteer for the Hunger Games?"_

 _"What made you decide to go into training?"_

 _They lose interest and walk away when they realize she's too stupid to answer a simple question._

"It's great," Cashmere tells him enthusiastically. "I like teaching."

"Yeah?" Finnick says. "You hesitated."

Of course he noticed. The butterflies flutter in her stomach, but she keeps her smile. "It's just a little different from what I'm used to, of course. But you said it's better here, so I'm sure I'll get used to it in no time."

"How so?" he presses.

"You said students are allowed to ask questions?"

Finnick nods. "Yes, that's different here. And it is better, although I can see it would take some getting used to. But no one's making threatening remarks, pressuring you for sex, touching you, anything that makes you feel unsafe?"

Cashmere says "no," honestly. Questions make her feel unsafe, because she never knows how to answer them, but normal people don't have this problem. Finnick says she'll get used to it. "It's going great."

"I'm glad to hear it. I want you to have more freedom and be more safe here."

It's a nice thing to say, but there's such a thing as feeling too safe, and it doesn't take her long to reach it.

The night she lets her guard down too far, she's lying with her head on Finnick's chest, while he murmurs something at her about Annie. She keeps stroking his shoulder with her fingertips, because his voice is steadier when she does. Then before Cashmere knows it, she's making quiet sounds of arousal and shifting her hips closer to him in hopes of getting some pressure between her legs.

For a few mindless seconds, Finnick nuzzles her hair and begins the automatic motions of molding his body against hers, before he freezes.

"Cashmere, honey," he says gently, "you don't have to do this."

Jolted out of her trance, Cashmere remembers where she is. She cringes out of his arms and as far away from his body as she can get. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm always throwing myself at—and you must be so disgusted."

"Nooo," Finnick croons, "never." His hand hovers for a moment above her shoulder, then comes down when she doesn't object. "You forget, I've been there, trading sex for protection. I will be the last one to shame you for staying alive and protecting the ones you love." His thumb traces reassuring circles on her shoulder while he talks. "I just want you to remember that the protection here is unconditional. You don't have to pay for your life."

Cashmere has a strange sort of double vision as she looks at Finnick. It's like he's two people: the man she's supposed to be pleasing, and someone like her from the districts who went through the motions of pleasing whoever he was told to. She stutters when she tries to pick the right one to talk to. "No, I didn't forget—or, I mean, I did at first—but that's why I was apologizing. I forgot you don't want this, that you tried to get out of it the first time and didn't want to put yourself inside me the second time. I didn't mean to throw myself at you when you've been so kind. It won't happen again."

Finnick stares at her in disbelief. "I was trying not to rape you! I'm still trying not to. I can't imagine that if I made a move on you now, you'd feel comfortable refusing when I could hand you over to Plutarch without a moment's notice. I want you to know I wouldn't, but I can't expect you to stake your life on it, so I've been absolutely not putting you in that position. I don't want you feeling like you have to offer, either. You know my story; I wouldn't do that to you. This isn't the Capitol. Things are different here."

"I know," Cashmere says, her heart sinking. She's gone and gotten it wrong again.

Then she remembers. Things are different. She can ask. "What are the rules here?" She looks at him cautiously, waiting to learn this question is off limits, or to see the inevitable eyeroll at her slowness.

Finnick does neither. He keeps his hand on her shoulder, encouraging, until Cashmere reminds herself that, sex aside, he has liked having her close all these nights. She lets herself come closer, watching for any signs of disgust, until they're lying close enough to hold each other again. Finnick starts stroking her hair like any other night. Cashmere takes a deep, shaky breath and tries to believe that she hasn't ruined everything.

"It's different here," Finnick repeats, slowly. "If you're feeling at loose ends, I understand. You'd think it would be just relief, but you and I, we learned to survive in that world and to make it work for us. I find myself half-wishing someone in power here actually wanted me enough for it to influence their judgment. Not that Snow wanted me to have sex with him, but he wanted to use his power to make me have sex, and as long as I had something that he wanted, I had some elbow room. And after all those years, I have this unnerving feeling that something is missing. I'm not selling my body, so something terrible must be about to happen. Or is that just me?"

Cashmere shakes her head. For a miracle, he doesn't sound disgusted. He sounds like he understands. She hasn't been able to put the habits of years into words, but now that he has... "If you tell me you're pleased with me, I believe you," Cashmere says. "But..."

"But if I don't want your body, how you can you really be sure?" Finnick fills in. "I understand. So I can tell you the rules here, but I'm not sure I can tell you how to adapt to them when what you're—we're—used to is so different."

Cashmere listens intently, prepared to memorize the rules so she can not screw up again.

"The most basic rule is that as long as everyone involved is happy, anything goes. You have to be careful to make sure the other party feels safe speaking up if they're not happy. Make sure they're not too young, intoxicated, or in too much of a power imbalance. Once you've got that covered, you can pretty much do whatever you want."

At the last few words, Cashmere flinches. "No, don't say that!" She was feeling better up till now, but that old familiar phrase has thrown her into a panic. "You have to spell it out for me! I'm not bright enough, I always get it wrong."

And there's Finnick, giving her a befuddled look, like she's some sort of bizarre creature, and Cashmere starts to cry. "I know, everyone else you can just say that to and it makes them happy, but I'm not like other people. I never have been."

"All right, okay, ssh." Finnick shushes her. "Let me think." He murmurs "it's okay" and "sssh" for a while, patting her shoulder again and thinking.

"What if I ask you what your body wants? What it likes, what it dislikes, that sort of thing. Is that something you can put into words?"

Cashmere can, she supposes, but she doesn't really want to. But he always finds out her deepest secrets anyway. Not telling anyone, not even her brother, has never stopped Finnick from reading her mind. She wipes her eyes and tries to gather her composure.

"And no shame," Finnick adds. "That's one of the rules, since you like rules. At least here with me, you don't have to be ashamed of anything. I can match you story for story."

"My body always likes it," Cashmere admits in a low voice. "It doesn't matter how I feel, my body always gets excited."

"You too?" Finnick asks gently. "Doesn't surprise me. You're like me. There are different ways of surviving. I know some who hated it, hung on to their hate, kept reminding themselves what was being done to them was wrong. I guess at least they had honesty going for them. Some started hating all sex, some just the rape. You and me? We went for: if we're doing it by choice, then it's not so bad.

"And there's a reason you and I were the most popular victors. It's about more than looks. We were the best at performing. I'd forget it was a performance until I got home and took off the mask and collapsed in exhaustion."

Finnick sighs. "And I know what you mean. Even if I wasn't into what we were doing, I could get off just on the fact that they wanted me."

Cashmere starts weeping again, this time from pure joy. At last, at last, someone understands. He just wants to know that he's wanted, and he doesn't know quite what to do in this new world either. And his body reacts too.

Which she always thought was wrong, but then, he always flaunted his affairs publicly, and he was admired for it. Although...they called him _slut_ too, she remembers. It's still confusing, but at least maybe this means she doesn't have to worry about disappointing him.

"Did they tell you you weren't supposed to have any desires of your own?" Finnick guesses. "And you didn't have anyone to tell you otherwise. Well, that's bullshit, and you don't have to put up with that here."

Finnick's rules have always made her life surprisingly easier, like the one about being allowed to ask questions, but this is too much. "But I thought that was dirty everywhere?"

"Were the rules the same in the academy and in the rest of District One?" Finnick asks. "Or in either of those places and the Capitol?"

Cashmere shakes her head.

"And I can tell you they were different in Four. So why would they be the same here? Now, listen. I want to be absolutely sure you know you don't have to trade sex for anything."

Cashmere can accept that. If he's not interested, he's not interested. And she can see why he might not be, after years of selling his own body.

"You know you can say no any time?" Finnick prods. "With no consequences?"

She's not sure exactly what he wants to hear. "You might respect me more?"

No, that's not it either. His lips tighten, and she starts feeling nervous again. There's only one kind of encounter she knows how to handle, and this isn't it.

"If you ever don't feel safe, you do what you need to to stay alive." Finnick acts like he's going to kiss the top of her head, and then thinks better of it. He presses his chin there instead. "But you're safe here. You don't have to pretend anything you don't feel. And you don't have to hide it if your body gets turned on."

"Those are the rules here?" Cashmere asks. They're exactly the same rules he gave her the night she was falling apart because she didn't have a script. At least it's consistent, even if it's strange.

"Those are the rules. The number one rule, I suppose is, you don't need to perform with me. If you don't understand something, ask. If you need to cry, go ahead. If you're angry, tell me. I know you keep saying you don't want to be alone, but if you ever want privacy, I'll make it happen." Finnick sighs. "This is the difficult one for me, but if you're afraid, you don't have to pretend to feel safe. And," he says with more conviction, "no shame, not ever. If you need to touch yourself, go ahead. I'm sure I will at some point. I'm just tired tonight."

Cashmere doesn't quite know what to think of all that. On the one hand, she doesn't function very well when she's not performing. On the other, she's found the one person who says he doesn't mind if she has nothing to say for herself, and still acts like he's interested in keeping her around.

Hesitantly, she lets her hand slide lower. "It's okay?" she checks. "It's within the rules? Because I can control it!"

"Absolutely," Finnick says, but she believes his smile more than his words. "Just tell me what will make you more comfortable. Privacy, being ignored, reassurance—that one?"

It's unnerving, being with someone who pays this much attention to her body language. It makes her feel exposed. But then, it also helps her surrender and stop putting so much effort into guessing what he wants to hear, acting that out, and desperately hoping she got it right.

"Well," Cashmere says, "I like not being alone. And I liked it when you were holding me and talking. It was...soothing? But I promise not to be clingy!" she hastens to assure him. "When you decide you've had enough, I won't put up a fight."

Cashmere wishes she could read Finnick as well as he can read her. Why does his mouth look unhappy while his hand is still moving tenderly through her hair like nothing's changed?

"I know," is all he says in the end. "Come here and get comfortable, then. And don't worry about how you're performing."

Tentatively, Cashmere shifts so that she's on her side with her back to him. She's tucked into the crook of his arm, and his lips are in her hair by her ear, and even her nerves can't quite fend off the return of the mood she was in earlier.

"It's all right," he murmurs, "I'm sorry you had to put up with all that crap over the years. You can relax here and take care of your own body. I promise it's okay here. I promise I won't think better of you if you try to pretend you don't have a body."

Over and over again, Finnick pours out this reassurance, and she listens until she's sure she doesn't have to pay attention to the words. It's better than silence, because in the silence she has to guess what he's thinking, and there's no way to know if he's not secretly annoyed with her. This stream of light, calm nothings allows her to stop guessing and focus on what her hands are doing and how it feels.

It starts out really nice, but then it transitions into feeling like some sort of freakish exhibitionism, because her hands aren't enough, and she has to start going over her usual fantasies in her head to really get worked up. Only now it's Finnick featuring in them, where he's doing a lot more than keeping an arm around her so lightly that she can barely feel it, and whispering things a lot hotter than "It's okay."

And how weird that the word 'exhibitionism' even occurred to her, when of course she's done everything from stripteases to pole dancing, and she thought she was past all modesty. But it was always on request, and now she's pushing up her shirt and making sounds all for herself, and it feels like weakness no matter what Finnick says.

Cashmere wishes Gloss were here—and how selfish is that—because he knew exactly what she likes, and he'd have this over in a few efficient minutes. Somehow it was never embarrassing when it was the two of them and one of them got spontaneously aroused, because they were just kids and it was just for practice. And she never fantasized about him, and it's not fair to be doing this to Finnick, who's used the word 'rape' more than once to describe what happened to them.

She'd been managing to keep the arousal and torment in balance until now, but suddenly she can't do it any more. She falls still with a single shudder.

"It's all right." Of course Finnick is still reassuring her. "I know it's all new. Just relax and don't try to force anything. It's going to take more than one night to get used to this."

"I'm sorry," Cashmere says miserably. "I know you're being kind, I just feel like I'm contaminating you."

"No, we've been over that. I could make the effort to get it up to prove to you that it's not just you, but we agreed to no acting in here."

"That wouldn't prove anything!" Cashmere protests.

Finnick chuckles. "No, I suppose it wouldn't. Listen, we could bend over backwards all night trying not to exploit each other, but I'm going to believe you and you're going to believe me. Don't worry about shutting your body down or making it go all the way.

"Now. You said you liked hearing my voice, that you found it soothing. What about the night in the Capitol, the 'sweetheart's and 'darling's? Was that soothing, or did it make you feel belittled?

"Either answer is fine," Finnick adds, when Cashmere doesn't answer right away.

But for once she wasn't answering, not because she was trying to guess, but because she was having thoughts she'd never had before. Her first instinct had been to answer, _not the way you do it_ , and then she had to puzzle out her own words. Never once would it have occurred to Cashmere to complain about silly love words. She drinks them in like the sweetest of wines. They've always been, like sex, a sign that the other person is pleased with her.

Not until Finnick used the word 'belittled' did Cashmere realize that sometimes, yes, they were pleased with her, but she was relieved and grateful because she didn't deserve it. Like being called 'featherbrain' with an air of tolerant superiority. And she never realized that some people made her feel that way. She only knew her moods went up and down.

"It was really nice," Cashmere answers finally. "Even if it didn't mean anything, it felt wonderful." She's a little embarrassed at the depth of feeling she's allowing to show, but Finnick keeps encouraging honesty from her and rewarding it instead of punishing it.

"Ah, but I was telling the truth. You are a sweetheart." Finnick's teasing voice dares her to contradict him. "And obviously, you're an Amazon. Look at you, you come here, go on missions, pick up firearms in no time, make all these contributions. And I will fight anyone who says you're not an angel."

On and on he goes, until Cashmere's melted into his arms with a contentment she hasn't felt since before the Quarter Quell was announced. In the morning, when the door opens and they have to step outside this room, she'll be overwhelmed with grief and fear again. Tonight, whenever she starts to wonder what kinds of unbearable demands she's making on Finnick, he laughs and reminds her that "I'm going to believe you, and you're going to believe me."

She believes him. His tone has gone from soothing to playful, and enveloped in all that affection, it's impossible not to respond.

She believes him enough that after swallowing a couple times, and tilting her head so she can watch his reaction out of the corner of her eye, she decides to ask. "If I...if I understand the rules correctly, we're allowed to relieve our own needs, but not each other's? Because of the imbalance of power?"

"Well, the imbalance of power means we do everything we can to make you feel safe."

"And I'm supposed to feel more safe without sex?" No one understands how different she is.

He smiles wryly. "I know. You'd feel safer if I wanted you and you knew you were giving me what I wanted. Wouldn't you?"

Cashmere doesn't answer. She wishes she knew what it felt like to be normal.

"That's not a trick question. I know it's true, for the same reason that I told you I half wish Plutarch wanted something from me that I could use to my advantage. It's because neither of us has ever felt safe, and we've just been trying to work with what we have, and we've gotten good at it. Or at least, so Annie keeps telling me."

Again, Cashmere doesn't know what to say. She watches him with all her concentration, trying to guess what he wants to hear.

"I know. I haven't answered your question, and you have no idea what I'm getting at. Neither do I. I guess I'm saying that in the short term, you'd probably feel safer, but in the long run, this new world is going to be a better place to live in. Only, I was really successful in the old one," Finnick grumbles.

"Okay," Cashmere says hesitantly. "I'm sorry I'm so slow to understand these things."

"You're not slow," Finnick tells her. "It's just complicated. I had someone to explain all this when I was younger, and I'm still figuring it out. Mags didn't cover our exact situation, you understand," he laughs. "But I will try to answer any questions you have to the best of my ability. Do keep asking, and tell me if the explanation isn't clear."

She thinks for a while. Every question is scary when she starts to ask it, but every answer ends in kindness and safety. "What about fantasies, are those okay?"

Finnick gives a harsh laugh. "You do not have to ask anyone's permission for what goes on inside the privacy of your own head."

Cashmere flinches. "Okay, I'm sorry-"

Now it's Finnick flinching. "No, no, I didn't mean that you shouldn't have asked me. It's just that the answer is that no one is allowed to shame you." He soothes her hair. "It's okay, even the weirdest fantasies are normal. Some are things you'd want to act out; others are just for keeping things interesting in your imagination. Don't worry about that."

Should she admit it? Slowly, she raises her head until she's looking Finnick in the eye. "It's okay?"

Cashmere watches the light gradually dawn in his eye. She feels a little defensive, but why wouldn't she fantasize about him? Even if everyone else didn't, he's been kind to her, he saved her life when he was supposed to kill her, he keeps her from having to be alone, and he's trying to help her fit in, even though she's very bad at it. And it's uncanny how well he understands her.

Finnick gives her a rakish, reassuring grin. "I promise you, whatever it is you're imagining, I've starred in stranger."

That surprises a laugh out of Cashmere, which she cuts off nervously in case it's not allowed. She raises her hand to tick off a list on her fingers. "So...fantasies are okay, touching ourselves is okay, cuddling is okay, talking is okay, asking questions is okay, crying on each other's shoulders is okay, but sex is not okay?"

Finnick chokes on a laugh. "Well, when you put it that way-" He takes a deep breath. "Okay. It's hard, but I said we were going to believe each other. Tell me what you've been fantasizing about that you might like to see come to life. And you can say stop any time."

Cashmere's not sure which of her fantasies are normal and which ones she's not supposed to ask for, but she has one thing to go on. "What we did in the Capitol? Where you held me and talked to me and said it was okay if I shut down?" Surely it's not abnormal how much she wants that? "But I'm not asking you to pretend!" she adds.

"I know," Finnick assures her. "This isn't about asking, this is just talking about fantasies. What did you like best about it?"

"This sounds really selfish, but I enjoyed feeling like I got to be the center of the universe. I've done it all when it comes to positions and kinks, but that was new. But I understand it was a one-time deal! I had a list, and you were being nice because you had a list too."

Finnick smiles. "I'm going to trust that you really mean it, and I'm going to tell you what I liked. I liked the feel of you trusting me. I still do. Gradually, not pretending to be relaxed when you're not. I can tell the difference, and it's not satisfying. When I said you should feel free to cry, rage, ask questions, be silent, whatever you feel...yes, those are all things you should be able to do for yourself. But it also means something to me, the feel of your body when you feel safe enough to open up."

"Even if that means not doing anything?" Cashmere asked. "Because the only person who's ever not needed words with me-" Her voice trembles.

"Gloss?" Finnick kisses her hair. "Yes. It feels like trust. It is so exactly what I want that I've spent all our time here trying to be sure that it's what you want."

"It's too good to be true?" Cashmere translates. She smiles knowingly. "Me too. So it's not within the rules?

Finnick takes a deep breath. "I suppose it could be...if you're sure you'll feel comfortable saying you're not in the mood, or putting a stop to it altogether."

Cashmere's silent, trying to figure out when she's not supposed to be in the mood for something she's ached for incessantly since her very first taste of it.

"But I won't respect you more if you pretend to want to stop before you do," Finnick adds, before she can get very far into it.

Cashmere gives him a small smile. "How do you always know what I'm thinking? I don't think I'll ever want to stop. But if I do, I'm sure you'll figure it out before I do and tell me. You're so good at reading my mind, it's scary."

Finnick chuckles, admitting it. "But remember what I promised you. Always to protect you, never to hurt you."

She remembers. Fighting to keep her secrets all these years, she never thought she'd want this, but for a wonder, the first person to be able to see inside her doesn't shame her.

Cashmere wonders how to put any of this into words, then realizes that she doesn't have to. She laughs, and Finnick echoes her laugh. His hands glide over her, trusting her. She closes her eyes, and she doesn't move. Trusting him.

Heaven.


	6. Chapter 6

An unexpected side effect of letting Cashmere stay in the compound and offer combat training is that Gale opens up more to Finnick if they're alone. He talks a lot about District Twelve, and especially Katniss. Finnick encourages him, not only because it's good for Gale to talk through his grief when he needs to, but because Finnick desperately needs to understand Katniss better if he's ever to undo the damage that the Quarter Quell did to any hope of friendship between them. She's brave, and smart, and...well, all of Panem knows her strengths. Finnick tortures himself with images of her coming on missions with him and talking to him the way Gale does.

Instead, the best he can do is listen to the tales of Katniss growing up. Learning to hunt. Finding out her father wasn't coming home. Almost dying of starvation. Supporting her family. Poaching and selling to Peacekeepers in the black market. Meeting Gale and teaming up with him. Things even Haymitch didn't know when he was selling her importance to Plutarch.

Finnick has no idea how he would have fared in a district like Twelve. He always had a built-in institution to turn to. The academy couldn't solve all problems, but it meant he was never alone. He can only hope he would have managed half as well on his own as Katniss did, or Johanna.

It's not hard to see what Gale sees in her. Nor that he has feelings for her. He doesn't say as much, but it might as well be written on his forehead.

"You saw them in the arena," he says in the middle of one of his Katniss-rambles, turning eagerly to Finnick. "It was just an act, right?"

"The pregnancy was certainly an act," Finnick says, trying to buy time while he thinks how to phrase this.

"I saw!" Gale says triumphantly. "You were the only one who still remembered she was supposed to be carrying a baby."

Finnick hopes it wasn't that obvious to the Capitol, but then, they didn't have Gale's unique investment in the situation.

"Katniss is at her best when she's being spontaneous," Finnick agrees. "She's not great shakes at acting." Ten years of Finnick planning a revolution under the President's nose, and Snow never detected so much as a whiff of disloyalty. Ten minutes alone with Katniss and he was already arranging to put the victors back in the arena. And Katniss is the invaluable one when it comes to inspiring the districts, because they can tell genuine from fake. Finnick's personality is always going to be calculated at best, artificial at worst.

"She looked pretty convincing with Peeta," Gale complains bitterly.

"I don't know her. So take anything I say with a grain of salt. But the way I read it, the love affair started out an act, at least for Katniss, but their feelings are getting stronger. They've been through the arena twice together. That creates a bond you would not believe. Most victors who end up marrying at all, and not many of them do, end up with other victors, even if it means they have to leave their home districts."

"But not all!" Gale protests.

"No," Finnick concedes. "There are exceptions. Donn, of my district, for one. But most."

"So watching your district get bombed out of existence, evacuating it...none of that matters."

"Listen." Finnick smiles thinly. "With war on us, everything is changing. The arena may stop being the defining event of our lives."

With a shock, Finnick realizes that he's been talking about Katniss and Peeta, with a subtext of himself and Annie, but what he's saying describes himself and Cashmere just as much. Saving her life, keeping her with him until Plutarch trusts her, those are things he would have done for anyone, out of common human decency. But holding her at night? Her eagerness to crawl into his arms and never let go, his desperation to drown out Annie's screams...that's nothing but being each other's lifelines after the Quarter Quell.

Gale brings him back to their conversation with a grunt of dissatisfaction. "So there's still hope, but not much? He's all she talks about."

"You're not going to like the rest of what I have to say either. Guilt is a powerful emotion. She thinks she should have been able to save him, and she can't stop thinking about how she couldn't. Hell, I think _I_ should have been able to save him."

"But you did."

"Not enough."

"There wouldn't have been anything to capture if you hadn't kept him alive. He would never have made it out on his own. Either time."

Gale obviously thinks he could have survived the arena on his own. Maybe so, but Finnick doesn't think it's such a given. He's seen big boys from Seven who were used to spending nights in the woods and using an axe go down fast to Careers.

"It's possible we'll still get him back," Finnick acknowledges, ignoring the what-ifs. "And if so, she'll be dealing with guilt, shared arena history, and...something that's harder to explain. When you act, you don't necesssarily become what you pretend to be. But if I'd hated my persona, I wouldn't have been able to act nearly as well, certainly not well enough to fool Snow. And sometimes I don't even know which parts were my idea. The line gets blurry."

"But you didn't marry anyone you pretended to fall for. You said you were engaged to someone back home."

"Annie." Finnick doesn't rub in that she's another victor, or that that's probably the only reason they ever had enough in common to build a relationship. "Yes. And I had to pretend not to be serious about her. So I'm not saying you have no chance with Katniss. I'm saying if things don't work out the way you hope, that's why."

Gale looks unhappy and stubborn. Then suspicion flares in his eyes. "And what about you? What's your interest in Katniss?"

Dammit. This was bound to happen. Finnick should have had an answer ready. He thinks fast. "My interest in her is the same as Mags' was." He doesn't like playing this card, but Gale's an emotional landmine. "Everyone loves her, she's our Mockingjay, and we need her. Otherwise Mags would still be alive."

That's a little heavy-handed, but it penetrates Gale's growing hostility with a smidgen of guilt. Not quite enough, though, so Finnick adds, "No offense, but she's no Annie."

"What's Annie got that Katniss doesn't?" Gale says, right on cue.

Finnick carefully doesn't smile, and just gives thanks that Gale's so easily manipulated. "Well, she talks to me, for one."

Gale studies him, eyes narrowed, for another minute, and then relents. "I guess it doesn't matter, Katniss doesn't do one-night stands anyway."

If he were in the Capitol, Finnick would have to twist that comment until he felt good about it, gloat silently about how his performance was succeeding. Here, remembering Annie, it just sharpens the ache of missing her.

Relaxed again, Gale sits down next to Finnick. "But really. What's Annie like?"

"Brave." Finnick lifts his head and stares into the west. "And I'm very much afraid that wherever she is right now, she needs it."

* * *

Gale's not the only one who uses Finnick as a shoulder for his love-hate relationship with Katniss.

It's clear Haymitch would die for her and also gladly strangle her. Finnick would sympathize, but Annie taught him that sometimes the people you love push you away, and you can't always be there for them. He's used to the world being unfair, and not allowing himself to take it personally, no matter how much it hurts.

But it's important to encourage Haymitch to talk to him, so in the interests of getting work done, Finnick offers words of sympathy while picking his brain to the best of his ability.

Finnick never asks outright what happens at the meetings Plutarch excludes him from. What he does is make small talk about all the changes they're seeing around here, as Plutarch gradually militarizes the district. That way he gets some warning when changes are coming, and he can decide how he wants to respond. It gives him elbow room.

When they chat about the weather, it gives him a better idea of the schedule for moving south, and so on. Finnick's a master at this.

He asks how Katniss is doing, and tries to read between the lines. However furious she may be at the rebels, her district lies in ruins, and she's raring to fight back against the Capitol. But she's wrangling with Plutarch about how it should be done.

"She's still on fire," Haymitch slurs. "But the way she's going now, we'll be the ones who burn."

Finnick's getting an idea of why it's taking so long for Thirteen to make its move. Officially they're waiting on Beetee to hack communications, but now Finnick mentally adds a headstrong Katniss to his list of reasons.

"Why, what does she want to do?" Finnick generally avoids asking direct questions about strategy, but this is one that follows naturally and shouldn't arouse suspicion.

Haymitch is not so far gone that he's willing to recount the debates that take place behind closed doors. "Let's just say thinking ahead isn't her strong point."

 _No one thinks it's mine either,_ Finnick thinks bitterly. For all he knows, Katniss has ideas worth listening to. He'd at least like to hear her out, but she's still avoiding him, and he has no idea how to get her to see him as a potential ally in her battles. Especially since he can't promise unconditional support before he hears what she's thinking.

But he's a professional spy, and this is hardly the most difficult assignment he's set himself. He keeps working Haymitch, until he pieces it together. The districts are rioting and disorganized, he knows that much. Everyone's worried about a famine if Nine and Eleven destroy their harvests in defiance. That's why Mags and Pearleye came around to Finnick's proposal to send tributes to the Quarter Quell.

So Plutarch, who's pulling an army together out of thin air, wants Katniss to encourage the districts to submit to his organization. Get the food to the rebels, keep it out of loyalist hands. Enlist as many soldiers into his army as possible, get numbers on their side.

Finnick, who immediately starts seeing red flags of cannon fodder, starts out with sympathy for Katniss's reservations before he even hears them.

What she's after is a more bottom-up approach. Go through the districts and encourage them to organize themselves. Give them the information they need. Don't destroy this, here's a map, send it there. There's a stockpile of vaccines over here. There's a convoy of tanks half a day away headed in this direction, clear out as fast as you can. Go east over the pass, there's another settlement that'll take you in. Here are some tapes with instructional videos on anything and everything the Capitol never wanted you to know how to do.

Plutarch says that would be great if they had time, but they don't. They need to be more efficient before they're bombed out of existence. If she doesn't believe him, her memory is short and she's forgotten where she's living.

And so the fight at the top continues, with Finnick excluded.

* * *

All at once, Gale stops wanting to go on missions with Finnick, instead trying to lead his own missions. In fact, he starts alternating avoiding Finnick with seeking him out when he thinks he's not looking. It's an age-old pattern that Finnick knows well, and Finnick means to get Gale through this phase as quickly as possible.

"Come on, let's go," he says briskly to Gale, the first chance he gets. "We're taking a message that Plutarch doesn't want entrusted to electronic communication."

Gale starts to come up with some excuse, but Finnick interrupts him. "That's an order. Let's go."

Gale glares at him, but he comes. They both know Plutarch will side with Finnick on this particular issue, and it's in no one's interest to escalate the matter.

As they walk, Finnick says, "I set my feelings aside enough to let Mags die. The least you can do is man up and handle some minor awkwardness."

"I'm doing my share of the work," Gale protests. "There's no reason the two of us specifically need to be carrying this message."

"No, but if there's one thing I learned at the academy, it's that you do not let your feelings interfere with a mission. Better we have this out now, when it's not important, than fuck up something critical."

"I just needed a few weeks and it would have gone away on its own."

"If we had those few weeks, I'd have given them to you. This isn't peacetime, and we don't have that luxury."

"I just feel stupid," Gale grumbles.

"Well, you're not," Finnick tells him matter-of-factly. "You think I haven't seen this before?"

"You think that makes me feel better?" Gale counters. "Join the throngs of worshiping fans?"

"Come on. We work well together, we have similar interests, we've been through combat together, you were evacuating your district as I was coming out of the arena...that's a lot more respectable common ground than the throngs you're thinking of."

"I was spilling my Katniss feelings all over you, and then to turn around and do this-"

"And did I shame you for that either? Relax and ride it out," Finnick advises. "You're not going to get shamed here."

Gale still looks uncomfortable, but maybe a little less so. "Did you get it a lot at the academy?"

"A bunch of teenagers from my district obsessed with training for the Hunger Games? Hell, yes. Once I got a bit older than most of them, they tended to slot me into either older brother or major crush, and sometimes I'd go back and forth between categories before they settled on one or the other. Sometimes I'd walk one home from the academy and find that they wanted advice on pleasing their significant other, or hitting on people."

"Why were you at the academy? I thought they didn't let you teach."

"No, but they needed a lot more practice partners for the advanced students than they had. Though I admit the only time I actually taught successfully was completely impromptu. Donn's class on survival skills got out of hand sometimes. Bunch of out-of-control teenagers, you know. No one kept discipline like Rudder, I'll tell you.

"Anyway, somebody'd ask me a question about sex, and I'd answer it, and one day everyone joined in, and next thing I knew I was sitting on a table with my legs dangling, lecturing and having a Q and A session about being a teenager with a love life, or being a teenager and wanting a love life. That night became the subject of legend in later years."

As the frank conversation goes on, Gale gets less and less defensive. But it still throws him for a loop when Finnick makes him the offer he sometimes makes in situations like this: one night for friendship's sake.

"Wait, are you interested in men or not? I heard you say on television that you were, and then I heard you say a few weeks ago that that was part of your playboy cover. Which is it?"

"It's complicated," Finnick says. "Let's just say I don't mind."

What he doesn't say is _I never had the chance to find out._ His first encounter with a woman was with one of Snow's picks, who'd paid for him, but he'd had enough time to get used to the idea, and convince himself that he wanted to be there.

His first encounter with a man was with one of his own choosing, someone he maybe could have been friends with under different circumstances, but he'd had no time to get used to the idea. Put on the spot, he convinced himself that he needed to go through with it now, all the way, or face the consequences later.

In the end, it was all the same.

"I'm not looking for pity sex!" Gale flares.

"I don't do pity," Finnick snaps back. "I'm not very good at it. What I am good at is handling a sexual encounter without making a big fuss over it."

"I'll keep it in mind," Gale says stiffly.

Later, under the noonday sun, Gale takes off his heavy sweater and ties it around his waist. A couple minutes later, Finnick holds out his hand. "If you're not using that..." They stare at each other in mutual bewilderment, then start laughing. Gale unties it and hands it over.

"What's it like where you come from? It's still October."

"Warmer than this," Finnick says, his voice muffled by the sweater as it goes over his head. "And we never get snow. That string of blizzards we just had were the first time I got snowed on." With all the climate control, the Capitol never lets a flake inconvenience its most prominent citizens.

"That was nothing," Gale tells him. "Wait till you see real snow!"

Finnick sticks out his tongue. "I hear we'll be moving south soon. Maybe I need to tell Plutarch to step up the schedule."

Gale laughs, and they sit on a large boulder together, snacking on bread and dried squirrel meat. "At least you can hunt freely around here," Gale comments.

"At least it's not fish," is Finnick's rejoinder. "If it weren't for wanting to go home, I'd say if I never have to smell fish again, it'll be too soon."

Gale is surprised. "But you're so good at it, and isn't that where you learned to use a trident?"

"Oh, I like fish _ing_ well enough. But the actual food needs to be exported far and fast, before somebody expects me to eat it."

As so often, laughter turns quickly to melancholy. Finnick knows without being told what Gale is thinking. _At least you can go home._

When they're done eating and are just sitting and taking a few breaths of the clear air, Finnick places both hands on Gale's back, and, ever so lightly, traces his fingertips along the ridges under the thin shirt.

As he expected, it rocks Gale to the core. Shuddering involuntarily, Gale sucks in a deep breath. "How did you know-"

Finnick keeps stroking. "That you wanted me to do that? Because I know what you want, and it's not mindless sex with the first hot body to come along. You've been looking for kindred spirits. Katniss. Me. And you want someone to recognize who you are and what you've done."

Finnick can sense the bruising on Gale's heart, as he struggles to cope with watching Katniss and Peeta on television. Developing an infatuation with Finnick is part of the healing process. Now Finnick has the opportunity to offer him something easy and uncomplicated.

He can hear Annie saying she doesn't want him to feel like it's his job to provide sex to everyone around him. _Well, sometimes it is my job._

Under Finnick's touch, Gale makes one last effort at resistance. "It still feels like pity."

Tenderly, Finnick nudges at Gale's jaw until Gale turns to look him in the eyes. "It's a gift," Finnick urges gently. "Take it."


	7. Chapter 7

Finnick's big breakthrough on the intelligence front comes one night when he finds Haymitch in a clean white shirt and a pair of dark pants. Both are new and freshly pressed.

Finnick grins. "Looking spiffy. Hot date?"

Haymitch looks put out. "I wish." He tugs at his unbuttoned collar so it hangs loose. "And how I got myself into it, I'll never know. This is worse than having to give an interview."

Finnick is thoroughly intrigued. "I'll wish you luck, then."

"Stick around and you can do better than that, you can drink to the mission. I'm not doing this unfortified."

"Gladly," Finnick says, and sits down to join him. He suspects Haymitch finds it easier to justify drinking if he's got company, because that way he can keep denying that he has a problem. _It's all voluntary, doncha know?_

Without trying to seem too interested in the political side, just friendly and supportive, Finnick coaxes the details of Haymitch's new least favorite activity out of him: diplomacy.

He learns that District Thirteen is receiving visitors. Diplomats from a country called Ayre. Finnick's not heard of it, but District Thirteen has been in touch with them secretly for many years. Plutarch's hoping to get military support. No, Haymitch doesn't know where the country's located, but he's been given some details on their customs and drilled on how not to offend them.

Finnick keeps his questioning light, and intersperses with as much dry, man-to-man sympathy as won't arouse too much suspicion.

"And you have to do a meet-and-greet with these people?"

"Yeah, it's stupid. Heavensbee won't even go talk to them in person on the first night, they have to work their way up to him. Lotta ceremony. I'm not allowed to speak off the cards."

"Ooh, you have cards? Are there a lot of them?" Finnick holds out his hand coaxingly.

Haymitch shrugs, and Finnick helps himself to the contents of Haymitch's breast pocket. He does his usual act of flipping through without seeming to be interested in the content, while memorizing as much as he can. When he does set them down, he puts them on the table closer to him than Haymitch, without looking at them.

"What've the higher-ups got you doing?" Haymitch wonders.

"Twiddling my thumbs until the snow melts," Finnick gripes. "As usual. Can you believe it? And you've been working so hard."

"What, you wanna go?"

Finnick doesn't hesitate. "It's the least I can do," he says as casually as he can. "You've been interceding for me with Katniss all this time." He's taking advantage of a man who's probably too far gone to think clearly, but how the hell Finnick Odair didn't get included in a ceremony like this...well, Finnick knows why. But if Plutarch's not going to be there to put a stop to it, Finnick can present him with a done deal.

If that means Haymitch hates him in the morning, Finnick's made that sacrifice too many times to have qualms now.

Haymitch shrugs. "Well, hell, I don't want to go and be polite to a bunch of monkeys in suits. You go, I'll have another drink."

"You can drink to my success," Finnick suggests.

Leaving Haymitch downing a glass with a grateful expression, Finnick's gone in the blink of an eye, before Haymitch can change his mind.

Finnick nods silently to Cashmere to follow as he passes out the door. "Let's go get dressed up and break out the makeup," he says to her as soon as they're out of earshot. "I squirreled some away after we did the propaganda."

Cashmere nods. "I saw."

"You'd have made a great spy," Finnick says approvingly.

Then he kicks himself when he sees Cashmere gasp and start shaking her head urgently. "No, no, I know you're not a spy," he backtracks. "I'm just saying that if you'd been from Four, I would have loved working alongside you in the Capitol." When she doesn't look the least bit reassured, he continues, "All right, I won't say that here in Thirteen. It was a compliment, not an accusation." Finally, he sighs, gives up, and puts a hand on her shoulder. "You're not a spy, okay? You're not a spy. I'm sorry."

He waits until Cashmere's breathing normally again and she nods at him, a hint of reproach in her eyes.

 _Fuck. I need to get her out of here._ "You don't have to come," he says gently. "You can go find someone to train. I'll swear you had no idea what I was up to."

Cashmere looks undecided. "What's going to happen to you?"

Finnick shrugs. "Probably a slap on the wrist. I'm used to getting away with murder. But I know how you are about rules, and I won't force you into anything you're not comfortable with."

For another minute, Cashmere watches him, thinking. Then she puts her hand on Finnick's arm. "I'm with you."

Touched by her loyalty and hoping it's not just self-preservation, Finnick takes her hand. "There's no one who's better at this than we are anyway. Let's do it."

* * *

Plutarch is going to kill Abernathy, and then himself. Abernathy _swore_ he could get through one evening without more alcohol than he could carry. That all those public appearances were to get the Capitol off his back. And Plutarch was stupid enough to buy it.

And then Pollux, when Plutarch sent him to find out what the delay was, reported that he found him slumped over next to an open bottle in his room, unresponsive.

Frantic, Plutarch paces in his office. Pollux stands in the corner, hands folded behind his back, staring down at the floor and waiting for orders. One of the best personal assistants Plutarch's had. His loyalty is complete.

Maybe it's not the end of the world, Plutarch tries to tell himself. There were three other people in the reception committee, after all. But this was his only victor, and the speeches were carefully distributed.

While he's thinking, there's a sudden commotion from outside.

Plutarch glares at the interruption, then nods at Pollux. "Go find out what that's about."

A minute later, the Odair kid is striding into his office, looking like the cat that got the cream.

When he realizes what the boy is wearing, Plutarch's blood pressure skyrockets. "You didn't."

"I handled it." Odair drops into a chair and lounges, smirking. "Problem solved."

"You were not authorized to be anywhere near this mission!"

Odair is unabashed. "Sure didn't seem like Haymitch was handling it."

"You should have immediately reported the situation to me."

"You're always busy when I try to talk to you, and Haymitch was out for the count, and I was bored, so...you're welcome."

Plutarch feels his face turn bright red with silent fuming at the idea of going on delicate diplomatic missions because you're bored!

Instead he swallows with difficulty. "I'm sure your intentions were good. But this encounter was meant to be scripted."

"I didn't start negotiating anything, if that's what you're so worried about. I told them I was leading the welcoming committee to help them settle in before the real work began."

"Well, that's a relief! But I had briefed Haymitch on a whole mountain of information that you didn't have access to when you decided to waltz in on a critical mission without any idea what was going on."

Odair flaps a dismissive hand. "The notes were in Haymitch's pocket. I winged the rest."

Plutarch stares at him in mounting disbelief. "Great. You picked his pocket too?"

Odair gives Plutarch the same _adults are idiots_ look that Plutarch's kids used to give him when they were teenagers. "What exactly do you think I was doing in the Capitol all those years? And you act like I've never handled anything life-or-death before. We're just trying to get them to give us money and gifts, right?" He flashes his famous grin. "Relax. I got this one."

Odair's insouciance scares Plutarch more than if he were being confrontational. This boy never takes anything seriously.

"This isn't the Capitol!" Plutarch hisses. He can just see the alliance he's worked so carefully on for so many years melting away in the face of Odair's insanely unshakable conviction that any of the skills he's acquired in his life are relevant here in Thirteen.

Odair rolls his eyes. "You seem to think I'm a one-trick pony. Or two tricks: killing and sex. Well, I didn't do either, if you actually need to hear that spelled out. Meanwhile, if you're so concerned that the person you gave all that useful information to didn't use it, and the person who needed it didn't have it, then maybe we're finally on the same page. Figure out who the reliable members of your team are, and use them. Now, do you want a report on how it went? Will that help you relax?"

"I want you to stay away from them. This is serious business." Plutarch's already wearily envisioning the amount of damage control he'll have to do. Finnick Odair can be charming, no doubt, but the odds are so drastically against the rebellion that Plutarch's trying to emphasize impressive preparation to his allies. Imposing, serious, likely to succeed, not fun and frivolous. "Believe it or not, there are more important things than whether they liked you. We need to convince them we're a good investment."

Plutarch can't decide if the look on Odair's face is amusement or deep offense. "Did you seriously just tell me not to bother my pretty little head about it?"

"That's another thing. You need to stop taking everything so personally. Your contributions are valued. What do I need to do to convince you of that so you'll stop telling yourself what you're currently doing isn't good enough?"

"You're not interested in my contributions," Odair says. His smile has faded and his impatience is showing. "You've slotted me into your preconceived notions of who and what I am, and you're not interested in changing those notions after seeing me in action."

"I've seen you in action, and I was very impressed-" Plutarch begins placatingly, but Odair doesn't let him finish. Complete lack of discipline.

"I'm not talking about combat! I'm talking about things like tonight. Taking initiative, picking up slack, winging it, noticing that the hovercraft we came in on is the same one we flew tonight-"

"Different 'craft," Plutarch says. He keeps his face impassive while he lies through his teeth. He'd tried to keep the existence of the craft secret on the first night, while he decided what to do about Cashmere. Now it's an open secret, but he's been caught in his lie.

"Same serial number, same dent."

Damn Odair. Plutarch sticks to his guns, feeling this encounter slip away from him. "Different. 'Craft. I want your promise to stay away from the diplomats."

Odair gives Plutarch a hard stare. "You have gold in your hands and you are throwing it away."

"Your promise."

Odair tries to bargain. "I will represent myself as being from the sovereign nation of Four, located on the west coast, and allied with but not identical to whatever new nation you have going here."

Plutarch shakes his head. "Unacceptable. We have to present a united front." He has no evidence other than Odair's word that such a nation exists, and regardless, secession is the worst possible approach. If the districts splinter, they'll be destroyed one by one. "This is a rebellion to overthrow the government. Same nation, different laws."

"I am a citizen of a different nation."

That's tantamount to Odair saying he won't accept the authority of anyone in Thirteen, and cannot be counted on not to continue going rogue and interfering with everything Plutarch is trying to accomplish.

Plutarch sighs. "All right, it's going to be a long night. I need a glass of water and I'm sure you do too." He turns to Pollux and signs. _Bring a detail of four armed soldiers loyal to me._ He doesn't want Odair harmed, but he does want him taken into custody.

Odair's looking at Plutarch's hands, no doubt wondering why he signed to a hearing man. Plutarch half-smiles wryly. "I have to keep in practice, or I forget all the signs."

"Yeah, me too," Odair says sympathetically. "Cashmere, come inside, close the door, and don't let anyone leave the room."

Odair's voice is so friendly that it takes Plutarch a second to process the words, and by that time, the door is closed and Plutarch is locked inside with what he suddenly remembers are two trained killers.

* * *

Finnick watches Plutarch struggling to show contempt rather than fear. "What is this, a coup?" He curls his lip, and doesn't let himself bolt upright in his chair.

Finnick carefully keeps slouching in his, downplaying his state of alert. "Nah. I could have had the equivalent of your job back home. Mags convinced me I didn't want it. Now that I've seen your job, she was right, as usual. Pollux, just keep your hands still where Cashmere can see. We're going to have a very civil conversation, the two of us."

As Finnick suspected, Plutarch's too old and too canny to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. He catches the barest flicker of an eye movement toward the drawer in Plutarch's desk. What's he got in there, a handgun? A letter opener?

Carefully and ostentatiously, Finnick keeps as close an eye on Plutarch's hands as Cashmere is keeping on Pollux's behind them.

"Now." Finnick puts his own hands on the desk and gestures to Plutarch to do the same. "You have one minute to explain what you need with four soldiers, and you'd better make it good."

"I have no intention of harming either of you. I simply can't have you going rogue while negotiations are in progress. I want you where I can monitor your movements, and after tonight, I think you have to admit that's a reasonable desire. Once I need search and rescue missions again, or I need a bodyguard for Katniss, or anything of that sort, you'll go back on duty."

"And you thought four was enough?"

Finnick has to admire the way Plutarch's trying to hang on to the psychological upper hand, even if he's lost the tactical upper hand. "I can add more if you like." He deliberately matches his casual tone to Finnick's.

Finnick's eyes light up in understanding. "You forgot about Cashmere, didn't you?" He laughs harder than Plutarch thinks is appropriate, and Plutarch bristles. "Yeah, that happens a lot around here." Then he grows serious again. "Every single conversation we have is the same. We go back and forth, talk past each other, and end up exactly where we started. If I enjoyed these conversations more, I'd keep coming back, but there comes a point at which Mags always said, 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.'"

Finnick tilts his head back, keeping his eyes on Plutarch but aiming his words at the two people standing behind him. "Pollux, do me a favor and bring me the lockbox with the railway maps. Set it on the desk here in front of Plutarch so he can open it. Cashmere, keep an eye on him. No sudden moves."

The box set in front of him is not the one he recognizes. "The darker, thinner one," Finnick says, lightly. "More bronze-colored."

To his credit, Plutarch keeps a straight face. Finnick guesses this one has some kind of a weapon in it. While Pollux is fetching the other one, Finnick transfers this one to the floor beside his chair.

Plutarch swipes his thumb over the biometric sensor to unlock the bronze-colored box, hiding any disappointment he may feel at not being able to open the other one. At least they're both playing it cool, keeping the situation from escalating.

"I don't want Cashmere seeing those," Plutarch warns.

Finnick's not sure whether a better strategy is to avoid letting Plutarch give any orders, which he's clearly doing in an effort to regain the upper hand, or to limit the battles he picks to the ones he really cares about.

He hedges his bets. "All right, I'll humor you. Push your chair back from the desk. Pollux, go stand next to him. Hands folded in front. Cashmere, please stand behind the desk and keep an eye on them. You need any backup support, just say my name."

The maps have a lot of detail that's encoded in ways Finnick doesn't know how to read. Under any other circumstances, he'd ask every question he could think of. That's how Mags trained him, after all, and he's never been embarrassed to show ignorance in the process of learning. But Plutarch has every incentive to lie, so Finnick doesn't ask.

At least, Finnick thinks, he doesn't have to pretend he's not interested in the maps. He's used to picking up information oh-so-casually in the Capitol, he reminds himself. This is easier.

Deep in scrutiny, Finnick almost cheers out loud when he figures out the numbers that represent elevation.

When he's worked out what he needs and resigned himself to not understanding the rest, he closes his eyes, goes over the plan in his head until he's sure he's got it, then folds the maps and puts them back away.

"Any messages you want me to take to the leadership in Four?" Finnick asks, his dispassionate voice a match for Plutarch's.

If he's gratified to see Plutarch rattled by the unexpected, he doesn't even allow himself to show that. "You're leaving?"

"What you've been asking me to do, Gale and a hundred others can do just as well. You won't miss me, and I'll be out of your hair."

"Look, I know you're a victor and you're used to having the spotlight, but this is an army, and I need exactly that, hundreds of soldiers to do jobs that aren't glamorous. If everyone deserts because they're bored, we might as well surrender now."

Finnick presses his lips together. "We'll leave aside the desertion gibe, since I don't recall signing up or taking any oaths in your 'army.' But back home, I used to gut fish. After I became a victor. I defy you to find anything less glamorous than that. I'll do what it takes to win the war, but I'm twiddling my thumbs half the time, and that means you can't tell me you need me so badly doing grunt work that there's no time to spare for anything that might pay off in the long run."

Plutarch fixes him with a stern, more-disappointed-than-angry look that barely even registers with Finnick after Mags and Rudder. "Your problem is that you haven't readjusted your expectations. You may be hot stuff with a weapon that no one will ever use outside the arena, but you're from the districts, and that means you lack anything resembling a background that would make you of any use as an officer. It may be no fault of your own, but it's a fact that I have to work with and that you need to accept."

"But I'm trainable," Finnick insists, "and you're not taking advantage of that. I haven't learned anything since I came here that I didn't pick up on my own, nor have I been able to use what I have learned."

"This isn't an academy, this is war."

"I learned more in the arena than I have here. We're never going to agree, so I'm relocating to a different front."

"She's going with you, I take it?" Plutarch's gaze flicks toward Cashmere.

Finnick nods. "No hard feelings, but I think they'll be able to find some way of tapping her potential."

Plutarch folds his arms, making both Cashmere and Finnick tense slightly at the motion. "If I let you go through that door-"

Finnick laughs.

Not the best idea to pretend you have the upper hand when everyone knows you don't, but Plutarch doesn't react when he's forced to change tack. "If I let you loose in Thirteen and don't pursue you, how do I know you're not going to betray me?"

"Because if I were going to betray you, I wouldn't walk through that door. In this room, I have the tactical upper hand. The moment I walk out and leave you free, I'm giving you the opportunity to marshal your supporters. No, if I were going to stage a coup, I'd put Pollux where I can see him, keep an eye on both of you. I'd send Cashmere for Gale, Coral, others who'd support my regime." He's bluffing about Coral, but she is from Four, so it's plausible.

"Then I'd bring Katniss in. She's not too happy with me, but she's not too happy with you either. I know you've been disagreeing about plans. I could offer her concessions, agree to do things her way, in return for her support. Then I'd have Beetee brought in. Katniss would tell him to prioritize establishing communication with Four. Then you could have a nice long vacation in a cell somewhere.

"There. I've laid my cards out on the table, named some of the people I could trust, given you weapons to counter my plan. That alone should tell you I'm not planning on doing it. But you want to know my reason for not doing it?"

Finnick leans forward and looks Plutarch directly in the eye. "The next time I see President Snow, I want to be the one laughing, not him.

"I've been telling you, I want an alliance between Four and Thirteen. Unite the districts east of the Capitol, we'll hold the west, and we'll make them fight a two-front war. But unless you are prepared to take me seriously, I'm not going to get that here. I've no objection to being lied to, but I do mind being treated like I'm stupid."

In a way, Plutarch's insistent lie about the hovercraft made Finnick's decision easier. He may not get along with Pearleye, but he can still hope that Mags had some influence on her. Failing that, there's always Rudder.

Finnick can't wait to get home.

* * *

Once they're safely on the border between Thirteen and Six, Finnick goes over the plan with Cashmere to make sure she's comfortable with it. They're standing on the shore of a very large lake, which he plans to cross by boat. Once in Six, he wants to grab a train or two and take them west.

"Six isn't in rebellion—yet—so there might be fighting and we might have to drive the trains ourselves, but we only have to make it to Seven, then we're in friendly territory."

"I've never driven a train," Cashmere says, disconcerted.

Finnick grins wolfishly. "Neither have I. But I got a demo once, on Annie's Victory Tour. You just have to pretend you're bored, and find someone who enjoys what they do, and in my experience they're usually happy to show you what they're doing."

"Is that...legal?"

"Of course not! Anyway, driving a train is mostly automated. It's way easier than sailing a boat, and they have all these safety mechanisms in place to avoid crashes. They should work even with the trains not running on a schedule any more. Your train just stops if it detects another train coming toward you. Then one of you has to back up and find a switch to pull over on before anyone can proceed."

Cashmere still looks uncertain.

"You can do it," he says encouragingly. "If you were smart enough to go through an academy and survive the arena, you can pick this up in no time."

Finnick knows he's handwaving issues like fuel, getting caught, the safety mechanisms failing, getting lost, etc. But volunteering for the arena was way more dangerous, and this has potentially tremendous consequences: linking up rebellious districts in the east and west without going through enemy territory.

"Ready to go home?" Finnick asks with a smile. "I think we'll be able to do better by you than anyone's done here."

"Home—you mean Four?" Cashmere asks.

Finnick inhales sharply. "Yes. I'm sorry. I would drop you off in One if I could. But the Capitol would be on you in a second. They watched you defect, and even if you claimed you wanted to betray us and tell them everything you knew about our location and plans, you'd have a hard time convincing them you weren't working for us and feeding them misinformation. And you would be a prisoner until you could convince them otherwise."

"I understand."

Finnick can't blame her for being disappointed, but this was the best he could do when he saved her life. Leave her alive to mourn her brother and blame herself for his death, leave her a prisoner in all but name, cut her off from her home. But she's alive.

"If you wanted to convince them otherwise, I'd suggest you cut off my head in my sleep and bring it to them as proof when you escape, but..." Finnick bares his teeth in a grin. "I sleep lightly."

"I wouldn't hurt you!" Cashmere exclaims, offended.

"I believe you. I was joking. So we'll stay together for now, but you should have more freedom when we get there. I hope." Maybe Rudder can be convinced to accept her in the militia, if Pearleye doesn't trust her.

"Home, then," Cashmere says. She takes a step closer to him, and he slides his arm around her at the invitation. "And, Finnick? When we get there, I understand that you're engaged. I won't make a fuss."

"We'll see what Annie has to say," Finnick says easily. "I don't think anyone's going to make a fuss. I just hope she's safe."

"I hope so too," Cashmere says, tightening her arm encouragingly around him. "I hope so."

* * *

The quote about insanity is often attributed to Einstein, but it's not known for certain who truly said it first. We'll just suppose Mags said it most recently, in a long line of advice-givers. ;)


End file.
